•VI 


B    3    331 


TRAILS 
SUNWARD 


CALF.  YOUNG  RICE 


TRAILS  SUNWARD 


TRAILS  SUNWARD 


BY 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

AUTHOR  OF  "EARTH  AND  NEW  EARTH," 
"COLLECTED  PLAYS  AND  POEMS,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1917 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Published,  March,  1917 


\°\ 

r 


AFFECTIONATELY 
TO 

W.  PETT  RIDGER 


i  UbO 


PREFACE 

Never  has  poetry  tried  so  hard  to  be  prose  as 
at  the  present  time  in  America.  Weary  of  being 
banned  to  the  limbo  of  the  inconspicuous,  it  has 
adopted,  via  Paris,  some  illegitimate  offspring  of 
Whitman's  ideas,  and  thus  "  ismed  "  and  calling 
itself  the  "  new  poetry,"  it  whacks  all  that  has  hith 
erto  been  held  as  making  for  the  poetic. 

To  the  experienced  these  new  "  isms  "  are  but 
aspects  of  a  general  and  unrestrained  reaction  to 
ward  realism.  Even  in  form  this  is  so.  Their 
broken  prose  rhythms,  suitable  perhaps  to  the  un 
accented  French  tongue,  but  lacking  the  deep  mu 
sic  of  such  true  free  verse  as  Whitman  has  immor 
talized,  makes  us  aware  of  the  fact  that  "  free  verse 
realism  "  is  the  name  which  is  perhaps  most  appro 
priate  to  them  all. 

vii 


viii  PREFACE 

Yet  the  purpose  of  these  realists,  when  it  has 
been  sincere,  has  been  useful:  for  every  poet  of  ex 
perience  knows  that  he  must  constantly  revert  to 
free  verse  and  realism  in  order  to  avoid  tightness 
of  technique  or  academicism.  When,  however,  they 
have  been  insincere,  when  they  have  been  aware  of 
palming  off  broken  prose,  or  when  their  impulse  has 
been  merely  symptomatic  of  a  desire  to  do  some 
thing  new,  startling,  or  "  American,"  in  order  to 
keep  their  heads  above  the  flood  of  books  poured 
in  from  abroad,  the  result  has  been  deplorable. 

For  a  wave  of  interest  in  poetry,  such  as  a  dozen 
years  of  achievement  has  brought  into  existence  at 
the  present  time,  can  easily  be  dissipated.  No  po 
etic  public  will  long  give  attention  to  a  realism 
which  makes  the  mistake,  common  to  all  shallow 
realism,  of  neglecting  passion,  imagination,  charm 
and  nearly  all  the  permanent  qualities  of  any  true 
poetry.  "  Prose  syntax  "  and  "  natural  speech  " 
are  good  —  and  many  of  us,  remembering  Words 
worth,  have  never  forgotten  to  use  them.  But  in 


PREFACE  be 

the  hands  of  these  realists  they  become  strangely 
self-conscious  and  artificial. 

Nor  can  the  criticism  of  these  realists,  each  of 
whom  writes  up  the  other's  work  from  some  point  of 
vantage  in  various  newspapers  or  magazines,  prove 
less  deleterious.  For  one  of  the  troubles  with  poetry 
in  America  is  that  it  is  too  often  reviewed  by  poets 
—  who  cannot  in  one  case  out  of  a  hundred  be 
trusted  with  that  task. 

Neither  this  excessive  realism  nor  the  exploita 
tion  of  it  will  suffice  to  relieve  our  situation.  Our 
difficulties  are  deeper.  We  must  have  a  truer  and 
greater  freedom  than  can  be  given  by  any  change 
of  verse  form.  We  must  exact  a  profounder  grasp 
of  life  than  any  rude  externalism  permits.  We 
must  ask  a  finer  sincerity  than  that  to  fact.  In 
truth  the  solution  for  us  lies  in  a  thorough  absorp 
tion  of  all  great  art  values,  and  in  a  maturer  and 
less  restless  living  of  our  poetic  life  generally. 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE. 

Louisville,  Ky. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  TRAIL  FROM  THE  SEA 3 

A  MOTHER'S  CRY  TO  HER  KIND 8 

NEW  DREAMS  FOR  OLD 12 

AN  INDIAN'S  PRAYER 14 

THE  MAD  PHILOSOPHER 19 

THE  CHANT  OF  THE  COLORADO 23 

MOUNTAINS  IN  THE  GRAND  CANYON 26 

A  DANCER 28 

A  WORKER  —  OUT  OF  WORK 30 

THE  PLAINSMAN 32 

THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE 34 

IN  A  CANYON  OF  THE  SANTA  INEZ 46 

WRAITHS  OF  DESTINY 48 

I    THE  FORESEERS 48 

II    THE  OUTCASTS 54 

III    THE  RESTORERS 61 

HAFIZ  AT  FORTY 69 

CECILY 73 

VALHALLA   .           75 

FAIR  FIGHT 77 

A  WIND-MILL  .                                               ....  79 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  MY  SISTER  C.  R.  S 81 

OLD  WANTS 85 

TRANSMUTATIONS        87 

POETIC  EPIGRAMS 90 

HOPE 90 

THE  YOUNG  MOON 90 

THE  FAITHLESS 91 

GHOSTLINESS 91 

AUTUMN  SADNESS 91 

PILGRIMS 91 

HOLY  ORDERS 92 

LOVE  LETTERS  RETURNED  IN  SPRING 92 

AGE  AND  DEATH 92 

THE  DEAD  THINKER 92 

SPRING  HAD  LOST  HER  WAY 93 

THE  SALE 95 

THE  IDEALIST  EXPLAINS 98 

IN  A  GORGE  OF  THE  SIERRAS 100 

THE  SALVATION  ARMY 102 

THE  GRAPES  or  GOD 104 

A  PAINTER  —  OF  His  DEAD  RIVAL 105 

A  WIFE,  UNLOVED 107 

SONGS  TO  A.  H.  R 109 

SWALLOWS 109 

IN  A  DARK  HOUR  .     . Ill 

TWILIGHT  CONTENT 112 

TOGETHER  .     .     .     .113 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  SONG  OF  MUEZZIN  ABOU 114 

TIDALS 116 

A  CHILD  AGAIN 117 

SANTA  BARBARA 119 

THE  HOUSE  OF  LONELY  LOVE 121 

IN  THE  SHRINE  OF  ALL 123 

A  TIMELESS  REFRAIN 125 

MIGRATION 126 

A  MAID,  DYING 128 

ON  THE  CAMINO  REALE 130 

THE  WIVES  OF  ENGLAND 132 

THE  TILLING 134 

A  LOVER,  TO  DEATH 136 

METAPHYSICAL  SONNETS 137 

SPACE 137 

TIME        138 

EARTH      .     .    ' 139 

MIND 140 

ERGO 141 

To  THE  MASTERS  OF  EUROPE 142 

THE  THRESHING  FLOOR 143 

A  LITANY  .  .144 


TRAILS  SUNWARD 


THE  TRAIL  FROM  THE  SEA 

I  took  the  trail  to  the  wooded  canyon, 

The  trail  from  the  sea: 

For  I  heard  a  calling  in  me, 

A  landward  calling  irresistible  in  me: 

Have  done  with  things  of  the  sea  —  things  of  the 
soul; 

Have  done  with  waters  that  slip  away  from  under 
you. 

Have  done  with  things  faithless,  things  unfathom 
able  and  vain; 

With  the  vast  deeps  of  Time  and  the  Hereafter. 


Have  done  with  the  fog-breather,  the  fog-beguiler; 
With  the  foam  of  the  never-resting. 
3 


4  THE  TRAIL  FROM  THE  SEA 

Have  done  with  tides  and  passions,  tides  and  mys 
teries  for  a  season. 

Have  done  with  infinite  yearnings  cast  adrift  on 
infinite  vagueness  — 

With  never  a  certain  sail,  never  a  rudder  sure  for 
guidance, 

With  never  a  compass-needle  free  of  desire. 


For  the  ways  of  earth  are  good,  as  well  as  sea-ways, 

The  peaks  of  it  as  well  as  ports  unknown. 

Not    only   perils    matter,    stormy   perils,    over   the 

pathless, 

Not  only  the  shoals  that  sink  your  ship  of  dreams. 
Not  only  the  phantom  lure  of  far  horizons, 
Not  only  the  windy  guess  at  the  goals  of  God. 


But  morning  matters,  and  dew  upon  the  rose, 
And  noon,  shadowless  noon,  and  simple  sheep  on 
the  pastures  straying. 


THE  TRAIL  FROM  THE  SEA  5 

And  toil  matters,  amid  the  accustomed  corn, 
And  peace  matters,  the  valley-spirit  of  peace,  un- 

prone  to  wander, 

Unprone  to  pierce  to  the  world's  end  —  and  past  it. 
And  zephyrs  matter,  that  never  lift  up  a  sail, 
Save  that  of  the  thistle  voyaging  over  the  meadow. 
And  the  lark  —  oh  —  the  sunny  lark  —  as  well  as 

the  songless  petrel, 

Who  cries  the  foamy  length  of  a  thousand  leagues. 
And  silence  matters,  silence  free  of  all  surging, 
Silence,  the  spirit  of  happiness  and  home. 

And  oh  how  much  the  laugh  of  a  child  mat 
ters  : 

More  than  the  green  of  an  island  suddenly  lit  by 
sun  at  dawn. 

And  friends,  the  greetings  of  friends,  how  they 
matter : 

More  than  ships  that  meet  and  fling  a  wild  ahoy  and 
pass, 

On  any  alien  tides  however  enchanted. 


6  THE  TRAIL  FROM  THE  SEA 

And  the  face  of  love,  the  evening  face  of  love,  at  a 

window  waiting, 
Shall  ever  a  kindled  Light  on  any  Ion g-unlif ting 

shore, 
Shall  ever  a  Harbor  Light  like  that  light  matter? 

Ah  no!  so  enough  of  the  sea  and  the  soul  for  a 

season. 

Too  long  followed  they  leave  life  as  a  dream, 
Reality  as  a  mirage  when  port  is  made. 
"  Ever  In  sight  of  the  human,"  is  the  helm-word  of 

the  wisest, 
For  earth  is  not  earth  to  one  upon  the  flood  of 

infinity; 
To  the  eye,  then,  it  is  but  an  atom-star,  adrift,  and 

oh, 
No  longer  warm  with  the  beating  of  countless  hearts. 

No  longer  warm  with  the  human  throb  —  the  simple 

breath  of  to-day, 
With  yester-hours  or  the  near  dreams  of  to-morrow. 


THE  TRAIL  FROM  THE  SEA  7 

No  longer  rich  with  the  little  innumerous  blooms 

of  brief  delights, 

Nor  all  divinely  drenched  with  sympathy. 
No  longer  green  with  the  humble  grass  of  duties 

that  must  grow, 

To  clothe  it  against  desert  aridity. 
No  longer  zoned  with  the  air  of  hope,  no  longer 

large  with  faith  — 
No  longer  heaven  enough  —  if  Heaven  jails  us/ 


A  MOTHER'S  CRY  TO  HER  KIND 

At  a  hovel  window  hot  and  bare, 

A  baby  on  her  breast, 
And  hungry  others  fretting  the  air 

That  fetid  scents  obsessed, 
A  mother  bitter  and  bent  with  want 

Stared  at  a  squalid  street, 
And  said  to  herself  —  and  to  her  kind  — 

With  sickening  repeat: 

"  Don't  ever  have  a  child, 

If  you  are  married  poor. 
Don't  ever  have  a  little  child 

And  make  your  misery  sure. 
For  two  will  come,  and  three,  and  four, 

To  .eat  one  crust  of  bread: 
8 


A  MOTHER'S  CRY  TO  HER  KIND 
And  grind  as  you  will  in  poverty  mill 
You'll  wish  that  you  were  dead. 

"  Don't  ever  have  a  child, 

If  you  must  cook  and  scrub 
And  wash  your  soul,  all  day  long, 

Into  the  clothes  you  rub. 
For  the  sight  of  children  bred  in  want, 

The  cry  of  their  distress, 
Will  make  you  long  to  be  but  a  beast 

Out  in  the  wilderness. 

11  Don't  ever  have  a  child. 

In  winter  there  is  cold, 
In  summer  there  is  fever  and  death  — 

And  a  face  laid  in  the  mold. 
And  then  another  —  coming  to  fill 

Its  sallow  hungry  place, 
And  suck  at  your  breast  and  drain  the  life 

And  hope  out  of  your  face. 


10  A  MOTHER'S  CRY  TO  HER  KIND 

"  Don't  ever  have  a  child. 

Your  husband,  down  and  dumb, 
Will  take  to  drink,  and,  out  of  work, 

Win  you  a  beggar's  crumb. 
Or  beat  you  —  till  a  cancer  grows 

Where  once  you  had  a  breast, 
And  your  days  will  be  a  bitterness, 

And  your  nights  will  be  unrest. 

"  Don't  ever  have  a  child. 

Leave  children  to  the  rich, 
And  eat  your  lonely  bread  for  strength 

To  rise  out  of  the  ditch. 
For  do  not  think  the  proud  and  strong 

Believe  you  grovel  there 
For  any  reason  than  that  worth 

Has  justice  everywhere. 

"  Don't  ever  have  a  child. 
Don't  set  God's  image  on 


A  MOTHER'S  CRY  TO  HER  KIND  11 

A  wizened  sickly  face  that  death 

Or  crime  shall  hold  in  pawn. 
For  almshouse  door  and  prison  cell 

Are  made  for  children  who 
Are  born  —  in  beds  of  poverty  — 

Of  such  as  me  and  you." 


NEW  DREAMS  FOR  OLD 

Is  there  no  voice  in  the  world  to  come  crying, 

"  New  dreams  for  old ! 

New  for  old!"? 
Many  have  long  in  my  heart  been  lying, 

Faded,  weary,  and  cold. 
All  of  them,  all,  would  I  give  for  a  new  one. 

(Is  there  no  seeker 

Of  dreams  that  were?) 
Nor  would  I  ask  if  the  new  were  a  true  one 

Only  for  new  dreams ! 

New  for  old! 

For  I  am  here,  half  way  of  my  journey, 
Here  with  the  old! 
All  so  old! 

12 


NEW  DREAMS  FOR  OLD  13 

And  the  best  heart  with  death  is  at  tourney, 

If  naught  new  it  is  told. 

Will  there  no  voice,  then,  come  —  or  a  vision  — 
Come  with  the  beauty 
That  ever  blows 

Out  of  the  lands  that  are  called  Elysian  ? 
I  must  have  new  dreams! 
New  for  old! 


AN  INDIAN'S  PRAYER 
(At  the  Grand  Canyon) 

Gulf  of  the  Great  Sun-Spirit, 

Within  whose  deeps  mountain-pueblos  rise, 

Or  mountain-tepees  vast  for  His  abiding; 

Gulf  which  the  Colorado's  quivering   arrow-water 

pierces, 
Deeper  and  deeper  pierces,  from  its  mountain-might 

shot  forth, 
Hear  the  cry  of  your  people  who  are  passing! 


The  Pale-face  came  in  his  prows  across  the  ocean, 
The  Pale- face  came  with  his  plows  across  the  plains. 
He  swept  the  primitive  years  back,  as  a  herd  is  swept 
by  fire, 

14 


AN  INDIAN'S  PRAYER  15 

The  Indian  years  away,  into  the  sunset, 
And  now  they  are  dying  from  the  world  forever. 

For  the  master  of  earth  was  he  —  and  we  as  children ! 
The  trails  he  has  run  across  it  are  of  steel,  strong 

and  enduring; 
And  a  giant  bison,  the  monster  locomotive,  draws  his 

burden  — 

Snorting  across  the  prairies  and  the  mountains. 
And  he  feeds  it  rock  from  the  earth  —  out  of  the 

earth  he  calls  up  water, 
To  quench  its  thirst  when  river  and  lake  are  spent. 

And  he  builds  him  lodges  —  mighty  and  hung  with 

trophies ! 

They  are  of  stone,  and  tower,  O  Gulf,  sunward, 
Like  these  of  yours  that  were  not  made  by  hands. 
And  he  brings  the  stars  down  out  of  the  heavens  to 

light  them, 
And  snares  invisible  powers  to  work  their  will. 


16  AN  INDIAN'S  PRAYER 

For  the  master  of  earth  is  he  —  and  we  papooses! 
Our  voice,  on  the  war-path,  dies  at  a  sough  of  wind, 
But  his  is  whispered  across  the  storms  and  wars  of  a 

continent ! 
For  the  air  is  his,  too;  and  he  makes  him  wings  to 

soar  upon  it, 
To  rise  and  scorn  the  eagle  far  beneath  him. 

Yet  hear  O  Gulf,  and  hear,  Great  Spirit  in  it, 

Thy  people,  who  are  coyotes  now,  that  hunger  be 
yond  the  campfires, 

And  know  they  can  never  take  their  place  beside 
them! 

Who  feed  on  the  bones  the  Pale-face  leaves  when 
he  hews  new  trails  before  him, 

Feed  —  and  ever  are  fewer  upon  the  pastures  I 

Hear,   ere   we  pass   away  to  other  Hunting,   and 

Hoping, 
Ere  you  shall  take  our  memory  to  your  silence; 


AN  INDIAN'S  PRAYER  17 

Hear,   hear,   and   raise   from   among   us   one   last 

Chieftain, 

Great  as  a  Pale-face,  in  his  arts  and  speakings, 
To  utter  our  race's  reason  to  the  years. 


For  we  would  not  die  from  the  wild  lands  of  our 

fathers : 
Our  long  home  —  ere  the  Pale  one  with  his  homes 

made  us  homeless: 

And  be  forgot  as  a  smoke  of  yesterday. 
We  would  not  die,  O  Spirit,  not  fade  from  it, 
Ere  a  supreme  one,  with  race-wisdom  girdled,  arise 

to  us, 
And  reveal  how  we  have  passed  into  our  Conqueror. 


For  wildness  have  we  taught  him  such  as  the  deer 

feels, 

And  primitive  freedom  to  his  freedom  added; 
And  our  silentness,  from  the  Indian  years  gathered, 


18  AN  INDIAN'S  PRAYER 

Under  no  wigwam,  save  of  the  moon  or  sun, 
We  have  lent  him,  O  deep  Gulf  of  the  Great  Sun- 
Spirit, 
And  mightier  made  him  for  his  destinies. 


THE  MAD  PHILOSOPHER 

They  let  him  wander  as  he  will 
By  wood  and  river,  vale  and  hill, 
Tho  snapped  by  madness  are  the  strings 
Of  his  wan  mind's  imaginings. 

And  often  his  sad  spirit's  breath 

Will  chant  of  life  and  love  and  death, 

Twanging  upon  the  broken  ends 

Of  strings  that  some  chance  moment  mends. 


"  The  harlot  moon  still  clings  to  earth," 
He  croons,  "  tho  love's  of  little  worth. 
Cold  as  the  spirit  of  a  star 
Her  lips  and  eyes  and  bosom  are.  .  .  . 
19 


20  THE  MAD  PHILOSOPHER 

"  Within  some  sky  beyond  the  sky 
There  is  a  whisper  Why,  Why,  Why? 
If  I  could  climb  the  wind  to  it, 
Of  frenzy  earth  should  soon  be  quit.  .  .  . 

"  A  person  lives  that  men  call  God. 
I  caught  him  once  within  a  clod. 
He  is  not  really  God  at  all, 
But  only  atoms  that  can  crawl.  .  .  . 

"  Hey  diddle,  many  sorrows  be 
Within  the  womb  of  destiny. 
That 's  why  the  thrush  will  chant  all  day 
To  keep  from  hearing  men  who  pray.  .  . 

"  The  sweet  sweet  herb  of  happiness 
Grows  ever  less  and  less  and  less. 
I  'm  sure  it  is  because  men  look 
At  their  own  image  in  the  brook.  ... 

"  A  bride  is  such  a  lily  thing; 
She  lets  you  bind  her  with  a  ring. 


THE  MAD  PHILOSOPHER  21 

I  see  Queen  Gwin  and  Lancelot  — 
But  Arthur's  face  is  all  a  blot.  .  .  . 

"  Lean  down  and  I  will  tell  you  why 

The  stars  are  lighted  in  the  sky. 

They  are  for  tapers  on  the  bier 

Of  —  hush!  don't  say  it:     He  is  near.  .  .  . 

"  The  owl  is  hooting  what  o'clock 
The  Judgment  Day  at  last  shall  knock. 
But  time  who  whips  us  to  the  grave 
Is  the  one  savior  who  can  save.  .  .  . 

"  I  '11  vow  it,  tho  to  Hell  I  'm  sunk: 
God  with  the  whole  world's  tears  is  drunk. 
That 's  why  He  is  not  God  at  all 
But  only  atoms  that  can  crawl.  .  .  . 

"  Ay,  doubt !     But  when  the  lightning's  knout 
Splits  the  sky's  skull  do  Brains  fall  out? 
There  's  sun  and  moon  and  sky  and  sea 
And  worm  and  ape  —  and  you  and  me.  .  .  . 


22  THE  MAD  PHILOSOPHER 

"  Yet  if  you  love  a  maid  then  all 
The  atoms  do  not  seem  to  crawl 
So  heartlessly:  tho  why  it  is 
Can  be  no  business  of  His."  .  .  . 

So  sings  he  in  the  little  whiles 
That  health  again  half  on  him  smiles, 
Twanging  the  sadly  broken  strings 
Of  his  poor  mind's  imaginings. 


THE  CHANT  OF  THE  COLORADO 

(At  the  Grand  Canyon) 

My  brother,  man,  shapes  him  a  plan 

And  builds  him  a  house  in  a  day, 
But  I  have  toiled  through  a  million  years 

For  a  home  to  last  alway. 
I  have  flooded  the  sands  and  washed  them  down, 

I  have  cut  through  gneiss  and  granite. 
No  toiler  of  earth  has  wrought  as  I, 

Since  God's  first  breath  began  it. 
High  mountain-buttes  I  have  chiselled,  to  shade 

My  wanderings  to  the  sea. 
With  the  wind's  aid,  and  the  cloud's  aid, 
Unweary  and  mighty  and  unafraid, 

I  have  bodied  eternity. 


23 


24  THE  CHANT  OF  THE  COLORADO 

My  brother,  man,  builds  for  a  span: 

His  life  is  a  moment's  breath. 
But  I  have  hewn  for  a  million  years, 

Nor  a  moment  dreamt  of  death. 
By  moons  and  stars  I  have  measured  my  task 

And  some  from  the  skies  have  perished: 
But  ever  I  cut  and  flashed  and  foamed, 

As  ever  my  aim  I  cherished: 
My  aim  to  quarry  the  heart  of  earth, 

Till,  in  the  rock's  red  rise, 
Its  age  and  birth,  through  an  awful  girth 
Of  strata,  should  show  the  wonder- worth 

Of  patience  to  all  eyes. 


My  brother,  man,  builds  as  he  can, 
And  beauty  he  adds  for  his  joy, 

But  all  the  hues  of  sublimity 
My  pinnacled  walls  employ. 

Slow  shadows  iris  them  all  day  long, 
And  silvery  veils,  soul-stilling, 


THE  CHANT  OF  THE  COLORADO  25 

The  moon  drops  down  their  precipices, 

Soft  with  a  spectral  thrilling. 
For  all  immutable  dreams  that  sway 

With  beauty  the  earth  and  air, 
Are  ever  at  play,  by  night  and  day, 
My  house  of  eternity  to  array 

In  visions  ever  fair. 


MOUNTAINS  IN  THE  GRAND  CANYON 

Each  a  primeval  vastness,  shaped  by  hands 

Whose  cosmic  strength  carved  idly  then  forgot, 
In  half-created  awfulness  here  stands, 

For  sun  and  wind  and  cloud  and  rain  to  rot. 
No  chaos  do  they  seem,  but  as  the  work 

Of  a  lone  God,  or  one  to  purpose  blind  — 
Who  could  not  his  creative  urgence  shirk, 

Yet  without  love  or  hope  has  wrought  his  mind. 


And  man  was  not,  when  first  their  mythic  shapes 
Emerged  phantasmal  in  the  Great  Gulf's  terror; 

Nor  shall  man  be  when  the  last  silence  drapes 
Their  desolation's  drear  and  deathless  error. 

For  supra-human,  supra-mundane,  sunk 
26 


MOUNTAINS  IN  THE  GRAND  CANYON         27 
In  dread  indifference,  they  heedless  sit  — 
Abortive  rock  from  whence  all  soul  has  shrunk, 
Abandoned  quarry  of  The  Infinite. 


A  DANCER 

Beautiful  as  a  wave  before  it  breaks, 

And  troubling  as  a  wave  when  it  has  broken, 
You  are  as  one  whose  luring  spirit  wakes 

Desire  so  deep  it  never  can  be  spoken. 
You  are  as  one  to  whom  men  sing  a  paean 

Of  praise,  then  long  to  strangle  with  wild  throes, 
For  the  body  of  you  is  as  a  thing  Circean, 

Your  heart  a  mystery  that  no  man  knows. 


Beautiful  as  a  gull  that  breasts  the  waters 
Then  goes  upon  swift  wings  across  the  sea, 

You  are  as  one  of  Time's  eternal  daughters 
Who  never  give  desire  satiety. 

Your  feet  go  through  the  hearts  of  men,  and  flowers 
28 


A  DANCER  29 

Of  passion  spring,  to  haunt  them  till  they  die; 
For  you  were  framed  by  those  elusive  powers 
That  made  Eve  for  more  bliss  than  Eden  sigh. 


A  WORKER  — OUT  OF  WORK 

Jesus  Christ  was  a  laboring  man  —  and  a  willing 

one,  may  be, 

Who  did  not  seek  a  fair  day's  shift  to  shirk. 
But  Jesus  Christ  with  a  wife  and  children  never 

tramped  like  me 
The  streets  all  day  and  night  in  search  of  work. 


Jesus  Christ  was  a  laboring  man,  and  he  said,  "  To 

Caesar  give 

All 's  due  " :  but  he  never  heard  his  children  cry 
Because  of  want  of  an  alms  of  work  to  get  them 

bread  to  live  — 
Mere  bread  that  a  million  drones  have  but  to  buy! 


A  WORKER  — OUT  OF  WORK  31 

Jesus    Christ    was    a    laboring    man  —  who   dwelt 

among  the  poor, 

And  taught  them  God,  the  Father:  but  I  say 
That  now  he  would  teach  that  man,  the  father,  never 

should  endure 
A  workless  destitution  day  by  day. 

Jesus  Christ  was  a  laboring  man  —  and  he  cursed 

the  rich  and  proud, 

And  flung  the  money-changers  out  in  the  sun. 
But  if  he  had  waked  in  the  night  and  heard  his  wife 

moaning  aloud 

With  a  starved  babe  at  her  breast,  what  would  he 
have  done? 

Jesus  Christ  was  a  laboring  man  —  and  it  may  be 

that  he  saw 

How  many  sweat  till  the  soul  is  numb  and  dead. 
But  were  he  the  Christ  to-day,  the  lords  of  the  world 

would  quake  with  awe 

When  a  strong  man  wanting  work  is  starved  for 
bread. 


THE  PLAINSMAN 

I  'm  out  again  in  the  great  spaces, 
Far  from  men  and  the  little  places, 
I'm  "out  again  where  the  heart  faces 

The  lone  plains  and  the  skies. 
I  'm  out  with  the  wind  no  hand  can  saddle ; 
Out  and  away  from  wants  that  raddle; 
Out  where  the  striding  sun  can  straddle 

The  world. 

And  oh  I  'm  full  of  scornful  pities 
For  dwellers  in  streets  and  narrow  cities; 
For  the  trade-songs,  and  trade-ditties, 

They  chant. 

And  I  wish  I  could  smite  out  of  creation 
The  lie  they  call  their  civilization, — 
A  lie  that  is  but  soul-dissipation, 

Soul-deceit  and  cant. 
32 


THE  PLAINSMAN  33 

I  'm  out  again  in  the  great  spaces, 
Far  from  men  and  the  little  places, 
I  'm  out  again  where  the  heart  faces 

The  lone  night  and  the  stars. 
And  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  untether 
All  pent  lives  to  the  wide  world-weather, 
And  say,  "  Come,  come,  let  us  ride  together 

Away." 

For  one  hour's  sense  of  the  infinite  prairie 
Is  better  than  all  the  years  men  bury 
In  crowded  walls,  sad,  mad,  or  merry 

Or  vain. 

And  one  star's  light  has  more  of  Heaven, 
Has  more  in  it  of  the  great  God-leaven, 
Than  the  seventy  myriad  lights  and  seven, 

Cities  beget,  for  gain. 


THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE 

(Martinique,  1902) 


April  on  Martinique; 
Day's  end,  and  the  moon, 
Trimming  her  slender  bows  to  ride 
The   soft   clouds   scarlet-strewn. 
Two  in  a  tropic  shade 
Above  Saint  Pierre's  sickle 
That  reaps  the  breakers  at  their  feet, 
White  breakers,  Caribbean  and  sweet 
With  the  foam's  plunge  and  trickle. 

Two  in  a  tropic  shade; 
Sylvette,  "  the  Nightingale," 
And  Raymond  dark  with  the  sea's  tan, 
34 


THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE  35 

But  both  with  love  pale. 
Sylvette,  the  Nightingale, 
And  he  born  to  the  sea 
On  the  other  side  of  Mont  Pelee 
Whose  jungled  slopes  gave  that  day 
No  gleam  of  destiny. 

For  long  had  the  fair  isle 

Been  held  in  a  deep  trance, 

As  if  the  sea  clasping  it  round 

Had  found  at  last  romance  — 

A  mystic  blue  romance 

So  dear,  in  the  embrace  — 

That  like  the  yearning  lovers  there 

It  seemed  no  more  to  be  aware 

Of  Pelee's  scarry  face. 

And  so,  as  the  moon  dipt 

And  rose  and  dipt  again; 

As  all  the  odorous  dusk 

Swept  through  the  clinging  twain; 


36  THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE 

As  all  the  tropic  stir 
Of  passion  trembling  grew  — 
Sylvette  lay  in  her  lover's  arms 
And  both  were  speechless  with  the  charms 
That  night  around  them  threw. 

Until,  "  Sylvette,"  fell  low 

From  Raymond's  parted  lips, 

"  My  ship  to-morrow,  with  the  dawn, 

Out  of  the  roadstead  slips." 

He  said  no  more,  but  gazed 

Into  her  Creole  eyes. 

A  pensive  palm  above  them  waved 

One  plume  against  the  skies. 

The  want  between  them  was  the  want 

That  ever  in  love  lies. 

So  deep  she  gave  it  back, 
His  look  of  want,  of  passion. 
Until  a  sudden  terror  shook 
Her  lips,  that  grew  ashen. 


THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE  37 

And,  "  Non,  Raymond,"  she  said, 
Loosing  his  hand  that  pressed 
Too  close  around  her  tenderness, 
Too  near  unto  her  breast, 
"  Non,  non,  ami !     I  love  you,  but  — " 
Her  throat  refused  the  rest. 

But  his  low  voice  went  on, 
"  To-night !  give  me  to-night ! 
Your  mother  sleeps,  oh  my  petite. 
Grant  me  this  one  delight. 
Come  with  me  through  the  hedge 
Of  husht  hibiscus  flowers 
To  the  little  hidden  chapel  there 
Amid  deserted  bowers  — 
Hidden  and  waiting  for  our  love, 
Nestled  in  the  night  hours." 

His  words  were  Nature's  own, 
Pleading  with  deep  desire. 
Yet  she  looking  at  Mont  Pelee 


38  THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE 

Beheld  it  grow  dire, — 
Though  no  sign  from  it  fell, 
Above  the  city's  sickle, 
That  lay  studded  with  lights  below : 
So  strength  out  of  her  seemed  to  flow 
And  fate  within  to  trickle. 

Till  soon  her  full  heart  felt 

That  rather  than  refuse 

Her  lover  love  she  would  all  life 

And  Life  Eternal  lose. 

And  how  else  could  she  choose? 

For  was  not  the  wide  night 

One  vast  sweet  mystery  to  make 

All  things  that  love  does  right? 

She  kissed  him  yieldingly,  and  went  — 

In  dumb  Mont  Pelee's  sight. 

Yet  scarcely  had  they  slipt 
Under  the  scented  shade 


THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE  39 

To  where  the  little  chapel-roof 
A  blot  of  purple  made; 
Scarce  had  they  trembled  in, 
Where  none  now  ever  came, 
Than  Pelee,  long  extinct,  sent  up 
From  a  slow  heart  of  flame 
A  slender  omen-puff  of  smoke  — 
The  first  in  a  dread  game. 


The  hours  pass,  it  is  dawn. 
And  on  the  sea's  fairway 
Sylvette  is  watching  a  silver  ship 
Through  dark  smoke  drift  away. 
Sylvette  at  her  window-sill, 
With  rose  and  jessamine  sick  — 
Her  soul  tangled  in  the  shame  mesh 
Of  her  remorseful  guilty  flesh, 
Her  brain  with  fears  thick. 


40  THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE 

The  hot  sun  finds  her  so. 
And  spent  now  is  the  spell. 
Dread  seems  the  little  chapel-roof, 
And  dread  the  matin-bell. 
For  as  the  sweet  sound  quivers 
Within  her,  resonant, 
The  earth  beneath  her  faintly  shivers 
And  out  of  Pelee  dark  smoke-rivers 
Sudden  begin  to  pant. 


And  somewhere  under  her 
She  hears  a  Creole-cry. 
Then  a  fear-murmur  from  the  streets 
That  down  below  her  lie. 
And   many   an   anxious   eye 
She  sees  turn  to  the  North 
Where  Pelee  writes  upon  the  sky 
A  warning  to  the  gazing  throng 
To  fly,  fly,  fly! 


THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE  41 

A  warning  brief  —  and  then 
Seeming  to  pass  away, 
Though  still  a  little  dust  falls 
Volcanic  day  by  day. 
A  pallid  sift  of  dust 
That  turns  the  green  to  gray, 
And  that  upon  Sylvette's  sick  cheek 
As  on  her  heart,  remorse-weak, 
A  terror  seems  to  lay. 


But  still  the  city's  sickle 

Reaps  the  white  breakers  in, 

And  many  mocking  at  all  fear 

Lift  up   a  lavish  din. 

And  these  Sylvette  passing 

One  day  cries  out  against, 

As  a  Cassandra  sudden  cries, 

Out  of  her  guilt's  harassing, 

"You  know  not  what  you  do!     Fly! 

Or  soon  —  be  recompenst ! 


42  THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE 

«  For  I  " —  she  meant  to  tell 
Her  sin  there  in  the  chapel, 
Since  it  was  seeming  now  to  her 
As  Eve's,  after  the  Apple. 
But  their  hot  laughing  lips 
Hushed  her,  and  as  she  went 
They  cried  "  Old  Pelee  at  his  worst 
Can  only  add  dust  to  our  thirst!  " 
And  so  they  drank  unspent. 


But  she,  the  night  through,  tossed 

Upon  her  torrid  bed. 

For  there  had  come  into  her  heart 

A  thought,  horror-fed. 

A  thought  that  she  had  sinned 

Against  the  Holy  Ghost  — 

There  in  the  Shrine  had  taken  love 

Where  men  had  sought  the  Host. 

And  she  was  strangled  in  the  stain 

As  in  a  sea  almost. 


THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE  43 

So  when  dawn  rose  again  — 
Dawn  stifled  with  wan  dust 
Poured  out  of  Pelee's  poison  throat 
Whence  lightnings  now  were  thrust, 
She  cried,  "I  will!     I  must! 
For  Wrath  on  them  is  coming. 
Because  of  this  hot  sin  of  mine 
The  hordes  of  Hell  are  humming. 
To  the  people  I  will  tell  my  shame, 
Its  awful  guilt  summing." 

So  out  of  doors  she  ran, 

Half-clothed,  her  white  breasts  bare, 

Snatching  the  dust  of  Pelee  up 

To  strew  her  brow  and  hair, 

And  crazedly  chanting,  crying  — 

She,  once  the  Nightingale  — 

"Hear  me,  oh  people,  hear!  and  fly! 

Or  soon  you  will  be  dying, 

For  I  have  sinned  the  sin  of  sins, 

On  the  altar  of  Christ  lying ! 


44  THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE 

"  On  the  altar  of  Christ  and  Mary 
Taking  my  love  and  lust! 
And  God  shall  destroy  the  world  for  it, 
See  now  His  burning  dust." 
And  they  about  her  listened 
And  some  with  fear  were  gray 
As  her  frenzied  eyes  glistened  — 
And  some  to  Mont  Pelee 
Looked  up  as  if  to  heed  her  word 
And  haste  from  there  away. 

But  doom  comes  of  delaying. 

And  doom  came  now  —  so  swift 

That  with  a  groaning  angry  heave 

The  whole  isle  seemed  to  lift, 

And  from  the  side  of  Pelee 

A  hurricane  tongue  burst, 

A  hurricane  tongue  of  singeing  gas  — 

A  fiery  wind,  accurst  — 

That  swept  them  —  and  the  city  — 

Ere  they  could  moan  "  alas  " ! 


THE  SACRILEGE  OF  SYLVETTE  45 

And  it  took  Sylvette  and  strangled 
Her  little  crying  throat, 
And  all  the  thousands  with  her 
And  the  few  that  heard  her  note 
Of  piteous  mad  repentance, 
For  in  all  Saint  Pierre 
But  one  was  left  to  tell  Raymond 
What  thing  had  happened  there  - 
To  tell  him,  when  he  staggered  back, 
Of  Pelee's  awful  flare.  .  .  . 

And  now  when  April  comes 

And  day's  end  and  the  moon, 

Trimming  her  slender  bows  to  ride 

The  soft  clouds  scarlet-strewn, 

You  may  behold  him  wander 

Amid  the  ruined  maze; 

But  no  word  has  he  for  you  — 

Only   a  ruined   gaze; 

For  he  is  seeking  his  Sylvette  — 

And  so  will  seek,  always. 


IN  A  CANYON  OF  THE  SANTA  INEZ 

(California) 

Swift  mountain-water  purling  far  below  me, 
Stupendous  granite  piercing  high  above, 
The  sea  spread  out  in  lucent  gray  behind  me, 
Framed  by  the  live-oaks  gnarled  and  mossy  round 

me. 

Upon  it  Santa  Cruz's  shadowy  summits, 
Islanded  by  the  mists  as  by  the  waves; 
Another  world's  they  seem,  miraged  a  moment, 
Another  world's  —  and  vanished  as  I  gaze. 


The  sunlight  casting  mile-long  purple  shadows, 
That  drench  the  chaparral  with  cooling  gloom. 
46 


IN  A  CANYON  OF  THE  SANTA  INEZ          47 
The  shimmery  peaks  pine-edged  against  the  bright 
ness, 

The  canyoncitos  for  the  eagle's  eyrie. 
Down,  down,  far  down,  the  wet-lipped  waters  calling, 
Giving  a  voice  to  rugged  solitudes, 
To  granite  cliffs  as  moveless  as  dead  ages 
And  mighty  with  repressed  omnipotence. 


Omnipotence?     Ah  yes,  for  every  shoulder 
Of  the  high  range  holds  off  the  infinite, 
The  blue-pressed  infinite  in  wrhich  are  hidden 
Star-weight  and  moon-weight  and  God-weight  to 
gether. 

The  precipices  shudder  with  such  steepness 
As  strikes  the  heart  beholding  deathly  still. 
Within  their  dark  crevasses  creeps  the  eternal 
And  chaos  yet  exerts  its  primal  will. 


WRAITHS  OF  DESTINY 

(A  Phantasy,  in  Three  Revelations) 

I 

THE  FORESEERS 
(June,  1914) 

[A  chamber  —  or  the  vast  apparition  of  a  chamber 

extending  under  the  whole  of  Europe  —  whose 

outlines,  country  by  country,  are  spectrally  visi 
ble  on  its  overarching  cavity.  What  appears  to 
be  light  pervades  it;  and  it  is  thronged  with  the 
phantoms  of  all  who  have  ever  died  for  humanity. 
The  eyes  of  these  phantoms  are  turned  anxiously 
to  the  rear  where  a  rock-like  incline  seems  to 
lead  up  toward  earth,  and  where  there  is  a  mys 
terious  tripod  on  which  is  enthroned  Life,  the 
48 


WRAITHS  OF  DESTINY  49 

pythia  of  the  Immanent  God,  swept  through  by 
innumerable  forces.  Around  her  are  her  ministers 
Heredity  —  preternaturally  human;  Chance  — 
awed  from  perpetual  oscillation  between  evil  and 
good;  and  Death,  darkly  incarnate.  Premoni 
tion  and  awe  seem  to  dominate  all  alike,  in  spite 
of  their  different  natures,  and  Heredity  is  speak 
ing. 


HEREDITY.     Let  there  be  answer,  O  Immortal  One, 
To  me  your  lawful  minister! 

CHANCE    [starting].  Or  me! 

Lawless  in  all  things! 

DEATH    [slowly].  Or  to  dreaded  me! 

[The  throng  sways.] 

HEREDITY.     For  ages  I  have  woven  as  you  willed, 
Meshing  the  hearts  of  the  vast  myriads, 
Who  people  all  this  continent  above  us, 
With  peace,  hope  and  hate  and  greed  and  love. 
And  many  were  the  evils  of  my  task 


50  WRAITHS  OF  DESTINY 

Of  threading  the  generations  to  your  thought, 
But  still  I  toiled,  trusting  the  fair  intent 
Of  all  your  deeds  would  dawn  for  humankind. 
Yet  now  — 

CHANCE.    Now  — 

DEATH.  Now  — 

HEREDITY.  Shall  this  thing  be? 

[The  throng  quivers.] 

CHANCE  [still  immovable]. 

Yea,  shall  it  be?  this  horror  that  now  looms 
So  wide  that  even  I,  the  all-unheeding, 
Who  bring  to  millions  fortune,  millions  fate, — 
7  faint  to  know? 

DEATH  [hollowly].     And  I  —  who  minister 
And  master  for  you  when  none  other  can? 
Yet  who  am  now  astounded :     Shall  it  be  ? 

[LrFE  gives  no  answer.} 

HEREDITY  [drawing  nearer}.     Still  you  are  tongue- 
less  and  your  emanations 
Float  on  as  ever  to  unwitting  earth! 
And  yet  I  ask  again  shall  all  the  warp 


WRAITHS  "OF  DESTINY  51 

And  woof  of  yearning  ages  be  undone? 
All  the  great  dream  of  progress  that  has  clothed 
The  nakedness  of  bestiality 
In  man,  your  highest  creature?     All  the  hope 
Of  human  brotherhood,  the  one  divine 
And  sacred  vision  none  shall  ever  mar, 
Save  with  remorse,  thro  the  arrestless  years? 
Speak! 

DEATH.     Yea!  for  I  am  due  again  on  earth, 
Where  I  must  whisper  it  among  the  nations. 
Shall  there  be  Peace  or  War! 

THE  THRONG  [with  a  vast  murmur].     Still,  Peace? 
or  War? 

[LIFE  sits  as  before.] 

HEREDITY  [with  disquiet  that  is  now  unendurable]. 
Break  silence,  O  Unfathomable  One! 
Yea !  or  I  cry  you  heedless  —  or  of  good 
Or  ill;  and  serve  no  longer  —  minister 
No  more  to  your  immitigable  mind. 

CHANCE.     And  I!     For  worse  than  my  wild-strik 
ing  ways 


52  WRAITHS  OF  DESTINY 

Is  this  void  apathetic  voicelessness. 
DEATH  [rising  strangely].     And  I!  ...  Yet  stay! 

stay! 

I  scent,  at  last, 

Some  intimation,  mute,  impalpable, 
Coming  from  whence  I  know  not,  that  the  hour 
Of  revelation  is  at  hand.  .  .  .  Yet  where? 

[The  throng  is  shaken.] 
CHANCE.     Yea,  where?  .  .  .  where? 
HEREDITY.  O  Life,  at  last  speak!  where? 

LITE  [whose  lips  for  the  first  time  open] . 
Ye  importuners!   seekers  to  foreknowledge 
Of  this  most  treasonable  tragedy 
That  ever  has  befallen  to  earth's  years, 
Hush  and  look  up,  for  the  To-Be  begins. 
And,  lo,  its  passion  which  shall  stain  all  things 
Sweeps  even  now  above  our  haunted  heads. 

[They  look:  a  shadow  is  sweeping 

Austria  and  Servia.] 
Now  are  ye  answered? 
CHANCE  [in  terror].     Yea! 


WRAITHS  OF  DESTINY  53 

DEATH  [starting].  War!  ...  It  is  War! 

[A  shot  rings  down  through  the  vastness]. 
And  I  must  up  —  to  ride  the  battlefields ! 

[The  shadow  turns  crimson.] 
LIFE.     Ai,  go!     For  I  who  am  the  maker  of  men 
No  longer  am  their  master  —  as  of ttimes 
I  Ve  seemed.     But  Devastation,  like  a  ghoul 
Of  the  Universe,  will  glut  now  with  despair 
And  grief  and  murder  and  all  misery 
Its  mystic  and  illimitable  maw. 
O  man,  wild  thorn  within  the  flesh  of  God! 

[As  her  words  die  out  DEATH  is  speeding 
away  toward  earth.  Then  the  chamber, 
grown  dim,  suddenly  melts  in  phantasmal 
darkness.  After  which  there  is  nothing 
ness.  ] 


THE  OUTCASTS 

(June,  1915) 

[A  hollow,  high  up  in  what  resemble  the  mountains 
of  Alpine  Europe,  where  never  a  human  foot  has 
fallen.  It  is  crepuscular  with  night,  sadness, 
mystery  and  fear  —  a  place  supernatural,  where 
the  semblance  of  earth  and  air  exist,  or  seem  to 
exist  from  time  to  time,  but  as  constantly  vanish 
in  a  whirl  of  blinding  invisibility. 

Through  it,  after  a  long  trembling  as  of  unseen 
forces,  a  wail  comes  which  seems  to  cause  a  wider 
lifting  of  the  obscurity.  Then  huddled  together 
in  the  rocky  center,  where  a  tree  overhangs  a  lake 
of  phantom  water,  are  seen  a  Naiad,  a  Faun,  a 
54 


THE  OUTCASTS  55 

Gnome,  a  Sylph,  a  Peri,  and  two  veiled  Figures: 
one  with  a  broken  Cross  on  its  breast,  the  other 
with  a  quenched  torch.  They  are  swaying  to  and 
fro,  and  as  they  do  so  the  spirit  of  the  place,  which 
is  that  of  Solitude,  seems  to  rise  up  questioningly 
behind  them,  and  after  a  little  to  speak. 
SOLITUDE.  Who  are  ye?  speak!  who  are  ye,  one 

and  all, 

Here  in  this  emptiness  unbreathed  before? 
THE  NAIAD  [with  a  moan].  I  am  a  Nymph! 
THE  FAUN.  And  I  a  Faun! 

THE  SYLPH.  I,  Air! 

[Swooning  away.] 

If  still  I  be  at  all! 

SOLITUDE  [to  the  Peri].     And  who  are  you? 
THE  PERI   [quailing].     A  stranger,  but  a  friend! 

Drive  me  not  back! 
For  I  am  terrified! 
THE  GNOME  [wildly].     And  !!...!! 

[Has  risen,  but  again  sinks  back.] 


56  THE  OUTCASTS 

SOLITUDE.     Of  whom ?     I  do  not  understand ?     [To 

the  veiled  Ones.]     Whom  fear  ye? 
HE-WITH-THE-CROSS.     I  have  no  thing  to  say,  save 

that  I  too 

Am  one  driven  like  these  from  out  my  place. 
HE-WITH-THE-TORCH.    Nor      I!     For      I      am 

quenched  upon  the  earth, 
The  nations  have  forsaken  me! 
SOLITUDE.  The  nations? 

[The  night  dissolves  them.] 
THE  FAUN   [as  they  reappear].     O  yea,  we  have 

been  driven  from  our  haunts 
Of  sea  and  air  and  forest  —  and  men's  souls  — 
By  a  blind  tide  —  of  blood! 
THE  NAIAD.  That  sweeps  the  world! 

[Her  hair  falls  over  her.] 
SOLITUDE.     Of  blood? 
THE  NAIAD.  Wild  blood!     It  stained  my 

wells  and  rivers, 

Till  they  could  purl  only  of  grief  and  death! 
THE  FAUN.     My  trees  were  crimson  with  its  cruelty, 


THE  OUTCASTS  57 

My  brakes  pestilent  with  its  plashing  pain ! 
THE  SYLPH.     Yea,  and  my  sky  was  fetid  with  its 

mist, 

I  could  not  wing  through  it  ...  but  sank  and 
fell! 

[The  Three  moan.] 
THE  PERI.     And  I  whose  task  it  was  to  build  the 

dawns 

And  call  the  stars  out  was  so  blinded  by  it, 
That  letting  go  all  mystery  and  beauty 
I  fled  from  my  far  ways  to  safety  here! 
SOLITUDE  [as  all  again  dissolve,  then  reappear]. 

But  who  has  shed  his  blood?  and  why? 
THE     GNOME      [springing     up     again].     Who? 
who? 

[Laughs  madly.] 

And  sent  it  trickling  down  to  rot  on  me? 
Even  on  me  who  hoped  by  toil  at  last 
To  rise  out  of  the  earth  as  fair  as  these? 
Who?     Man!  the  ruiner  of  all  things!     Man! 
[He  raves.  .  .  .  A  Silence.] 


58  THE  OUTCASTS 

SOLITUDE.     But  know  ye  what  ye  say?    Has  God 
not  globed 

The  earth  for  man?  and  sent  him  His  own  Son? 
THE  FIGURE- WITH-THE-CROSS.     Alas! 
SOLITUDE  [quickly].  Why  do  you  say  alas? 

THE  FIGURE  [lifting  its  veil].  I  am 

That  Son! 
SOLITUDE.     The  Christ!  it  cannot  be!  not  He! 

These  might  be  driven  by  blood-flow  away, 

But  never  He ! 

THE  FiGURE-wiTH-THE-ToRCH.     Yet  even  Him  it 
hath! 

[Now  lifts  its  veil.} 

For  I  am  Truth,  who  outcast,  too,  attest  it. 

He  could  not  stay,  but  like  to  these  fair  dreams 

Quivering  here  —  distenanted  of  all  — 

Is  driven  forth! 
THE  FAUN.     Woe,  woe! 
THE  NAIAD.  Ai,  woe ! 

THE  SYLPH  [like  an  echo].  .  .  .  Woe!  .  .  . 
SOLITUDE  [as  all  sway  —  through  a  long  silence]. 


THE  OUTCASTS  59 

And  what  now  will  ye  do,  so  homeless  here  ? 

[They  breathe  no  reply.] 
What  will  ye  do? 

THE  FIGURE-WITH-THE-CROSS.     I  answer  for  us  all. 
We  shall  await  —  until  the  tide  has  ebbed. 

SOLITUDE.     And  then  return? 

THE  SYLPH.  Never! 

THE  NAIAD.  Never! 

THE  FAUN.  Never! 

[Their  cries  flutter  up.] 

HE-WITH-THE-CROSS.     Children  of  Beauty,  yes! 

[Their  cries  wane].     For  other  place 
In  all  the  universe  is  not  prepared 
To  us,  save  upon  earth  and  in  men's  hearts. 
For  we  are  healers,  cleansers  and  uplifters, 
Hierophants  of  Love  and  Hope  and  Joy, 
Or  we  are  naught.     And  when  the  tide  has  ebbed 
There  will  be  more  of  misery  and  guilt 
To  wipe  away  into  oblivion 
Than  ever  again  shall  cling  to  humankind 
Through  all  the  flooding  vastity  of  time. 


60  THE  OUTCASTS 

THE  FAUN    [yielding,  at  length,  to  these  words, 

though  hopelessly]. 
E'en  be  it  then!  .  .  . 
THE  NAIAD.  E'en  so!  ... 

THE  SYLPH.  Ai! 

HE-WITH-THE-TORCH  [relieved].  Even  so! 

[All  huddle  again  and  the  darkness  begins  to 
thicken.  But  before  it  falls  the  Cross  glows 
a  moment,  then  the  Torch.  Then  invisibility 
vast  and  benumbing  again  resumes  all.] 


m 


THE  RESTORERS 
(June,  19—) 

[A  verdant  hill-side  that  seems  to  rise,  as  if  by  en 
chantment,  somewhere  in  the  heart  of  Europe. 
It  is  lit  by  a  radiance  more  miraculously  joyful 
and  tender  than  can  ever  visit  earth,  and  is  cov 
ered  with  flowers  and  trees  whose  fragrance  floats 
over  it  like  the  essence  of  dreams. 

Down  to  its  open  center  come  trooping,  from  a  glade 
behind,  all  lovely  creatures  that  men  have  ever 
imagined.  In  their  midst  is  the  spirit-form  of 
Life,  now  infinitely  a-quiver  with  new  hope;  of 
the  Christ,  with  a  new  Cross;  of  Truth,  with  a 
fresh  torch;  of  Heredity  with  the  flax  of  a  new 
61 


•62  THE  RESTORERS 

humanity  in  her  hands;  and,  with  them,  a  multi 
tude  of  Nymphs,  Fauns,  Sylphs,  Gnomes,  and 
other  visions.  All  are  singing  with  an  immor 
tal  desire  to  help  restore  a  continent  ravished  as 
no  continent  has  ever  been  before. 
LIFE  [gloriously]. 

The  last  shot  is  fired, 
The  last  blood  shed! 
Death  has  retired  — 
CHRIST.     The  world  is  new  led ! 
HEREDITY.     Everywhere,  everywhere, 
Men  are  returning 
Back  from  red  slaughter 
And  rapine  and  burning! 
So  with  new  flax 
I  weave  a  new  race! 
CHRIST.     And  I  a  new  God 

In  the  old  God's  place! 
TRUTH  [ecstatically]. 

And  I  —  whose  torch 
Flame  has  rekindled  — 


THE  RESTORERS  63 

Will  burn  away  error 
And  fog  and  lies! 
For  Peace,  brave  Peace, 
Their  passion  has  dwindled, 
And  now  a  new  light 
Shall  fill  men's  eyes! 
THE  NYMPHS  [dancing  forth]. 
Ai,  ai!     So  give  us 
A  million  flowers 

And  let  us  scatter  them  over  the  vales! 
And  grain !  — 
For  the  slain, 
Who  lie  in  the  earth, 
Who  died,  died  for  their  fatherlands, 
Yearn  now  to  push  up, 
Into  harvest-birth, 

Blossoms  that  spring  for  their  children-bands. 
THE  FAUNS  [in  turn] . 

And  give  us  the  planting 
Of  fruitful  trees, 
Whose  shady  limbs,  from  the  noontide  sun, 


64  THE  RESTORERS 

Shall  shelter  the  shepherd 

And  gently  ease 

The  toil  of  the  peasant,  never  done. 
THE  SYLPHS  [in  the  air] . 

And  give  us  the  cooling 

Of  winds  in  the  South ! 

And  give  us  the  warming 

Of  winds  in  the  North! 

Let  us  be  master 

Of  chill  and  drouth, 

Of  cloud  and  tempest  and  heat,  henceforth! 
THE  GNOMES  [in  humble  joy]. 

And  we,  who  are  glad 

To  feel,  no  more, 

Warm  blood  trickling 

Beneath  the  ground, 

Ask  but  to  whisper 

To  men  the  place 
Where  riches  in  veins  of  the  earth  are  found ! 

For  wealth  will  be  needed  — 
THE  NYMPHS.     And  flowers!  and  grain! 


THE  RESTORERS  65 

THE  FAUNS.     And  shade  — 
THE  GNOMES.  To  give  men 

New  courage  again! 

ALL.     Ai,  ai,  to  give  men  new  courage  again! 
LIFE  [all  radiant  now]. 

Yea,  children  of  Beauty, 
They  shall  be  given! 

For  now  you  are  more  than  creatures  of  joy. 
You  help  the  world  on  — 
And  that  is  heaven: 
Immortal  is  such  divine  employ. 
CHRIST.     Yea  so!  it  is  so! 

And  now  I  shall  win 
The  world  from  its  misery  way  at  last. 
For  these  are  ready  — 
And  Truth  joins  in  — 
THE  NYMPHS.     To  serve,  serve, 

Till  the  need  is  past ! 
CHRIST.     And  so  my  new  Cross 
Shall  blossom  with  roses, 
And  never  a  thorn  of  it  grow  to  prick 


66  THE  RESTORERS  ,4 

The  brow  of  my  lovers,  j 

Till  Time  closes  — 
HEREDITY.     Or  till  all  poverty,  wrong  and  shame 

Shall  be  as  a  grief -remembered  name! 
ALL  [exalted].     As  soon  they  shall  be! 

For  now  we  are  one 
So  let  us  spread  over  earth,  fleetly, 
And  enter  the  hearts  of  men  completely, 
Till  red  wars  are  done! 


Let  us  break  cannon, 

Let  us  melt  hate  — 
And  mold  them  into  a  higher  might! 

Let  us  disarm 

Wild  Fear  —  and  mate 
Its  courage  to  faith  in  immortal  Right! 


Then  let  us  gather 
The  wisest  of  earth 


THE  RESTORERS  67 

Into  a  Council,  for  humankind; 

Where  not  a  word 

Shall   be  held   of  worth, 
Save  it  be  spoken  world-weal  to  find! 


Save  it  be  uttered 

To  give  the  poor 
And  backward  and  barbarous  right  to  Life  — 

Right  to  be  ruled 

By  a  Law,  made  sure 
Through  world-consent,  against  greed  and  strife! 


Right  to  be  fed, 

And  right  to  rejoice; 
Right  to  be  clothed:  and  right  to  love 

The  raiment  of  earth  — 

Each  fairy  voice 
Of  all  its  spirits  below  or  above! 


68  THE  RESTORERS 

Come  then,  let  us 
Away,  fleetly! 

Much  has  been  done,  much  is  to  do; 
Let  us  go  sing 
Of  our  task  so  sweetly 
That  the  old  world,  sick  of  its  crime, 
Shall  give  its  heart  for  a  new! 
[They  cease   and   band   by   band  go   streaming 
away,  melting  at  last  in  the  valleys  under  the 
sun.    And  with  them  the  hillside  melts  and 
all  the  enchantment.] 


HAFIZ  AT  FORTY 

(From  his  seat  by  the  Caravansary) 

I  Ve  slipped   into  the  years  betwixt  the  green  of 

youth  and  age, 

Betwixt  the  dawn  and  the  sunset,  upon  life's  pil 
grimage. 

And  well  do  I  love  the  green  yet,  though  turned  to 
ward  the  gray: 

But  I  do  not  cry  for  the  flowers  of  it, 
The  April-tripping  hours  of  it, 
And  all  the  singing  bowers  of  it, 
As  on  I  take  my  way. 


At  twenty  I  had  nor  scrip  nor  staff,  my  limbs  were 
lightly  clad; 

69 


70  HAFIZ  AT  FORTY 

My   food  was   space  — and   a  girl's   face  — from 

Yazd  to  Allahabad! 
And  each,  then,  did  I  love  —  and  each  is  still  my 

houri-one : 

Though  I  am  not  sad  for  the  lips  of  them, 
The  clinging  finger-tips  of  them, 
Nor  for  the  moonlit  sips  of  them 
I  took,  in  benison. 

And  every  road  at  twenty  led  me  to  my  Mecca,  Joy; 
Where  Allah  might  be,  or  not  be:  that  was  not  my 

employ ! 
For  earth  was  made,   and  that  was  enough:     I 

walked  a  Paradise: 
Yet  not  to  sigh  for  the  sun  of  it, 
The  Sufi  visions  spun  of  it; 
Or  —  now  —  with  soul  undone  of  it, 
Refuse  to  pay  the  price! 

For  if  I  was  Infidel,  as  Doctors  avow  — or  worse, 
mad; 


HAFIZ  AT  FORTY  71 

And  if  the  only  Koran  I  read  was  the  strong  heart 

I  had; 

I  want  no  other  or  better  bliss  than  such  insanity  I 
Though  I  will  not  sue  for  the  day  of  it, 
The  long  wild  passion  sway  of  it, 
The  wine  and  minstrel  way  of  it, 
To  come  again  to  me. 

For  Forty  is  good  as  Twenty  —  to  him  who  loves 

the  earth. 
The  bulbul  sings  a  different  song,  but  one  as  sweet 

of  worth. 

A  face  is  not  so  fair,  then,  though  fairer  is  the  soul : 

So  here,  by  the  Caravansary, 

Where  I  may  every  dancer  see, 

A  quiet  seat  will  answer  me 

As  well,  upon  the  whole. 

As  well !  and  youth  may  laugh  at  age  —  for  age  can 
laugh  at  youth. 


72  HAFIZ  AT  FORTY 

And  not  a  sunnier  laughter  leaps  from  Joy,  than  out 

of  Truth. 
Nor  boots  it  what  our  years  may  be,  if  laughter  is 

our  friend, 

So  though,  now,  it  is  clear  I  store 
Along  my  thinning  brow  two-score, 
This  will  I  keep  —  if  nothing  more  — 
A  glad  heart  to  the  end! 


CECILY 

She  had  a  laugh 
That  took  Joy  by  the  hand 
And  made  it  dance  tip-toe. 
And  her  eyes  danced 
Till  laughter  out  of  Grief 
Would  overflow. 


Wild  as  a  spot  of  sun 
Upon  a  windy  day 
Her  heart  was,  .  .  . 
Ever  at  play! 


Was,  did  I  say? 
Well.  .  .  . 

73 


74  CECILY 

In  a  padded  cell, 
Three  hundred  sixty-three, 
She  picks  the  sunbeams  now 
From  off  her  knee, 

And  flings  them  from  her  and  cries, 
"Vile— -they're  vile!" 


VALHALLA 

(At  a  Wagner  Concert) 

They  ride,  ride, 

The  Walkure  ride, 

On  the  shriek  of  the  wind. 

Wild  they  stride, 

Hoofing  the  clouds 

And  striking  out  lightnings. 

I  am  thrilled,  fain 

For  the  next  high  strain 

Of  supernal  exultance: 

Till  sudden  a  pain 
Strikes  from  the  sky 
The  rout  and  shout  of  them. 
75 


76  VALHALLA 

For  under  earth 
I  am  seeing  instead 
A  million  dead. 


And  never  a  face 
In  that  place  — 
Praises  Valhalla. 


FAIR  FIGHT 

Let  me  strike  my  foe  down, 

If  stricken  he  should  be, 
Face  to  face  in  any  place 

Of  battle-bravery. 
Let  our  arms  be  equal. 

And  never  let  me  use 
Petty  vantage-place  or  power 
To  smite  him  from,  in  a  dark  hour: 

Rather  let  me  lose. 


Or,  if  chance  comes  to  me 

To  shut  his  worth  away 
Year  by  year,  from  the  world's  ear, 

With  silence  or  word-sway, 

77 


78  FAIR  FIGHT 

Let  me  fling  it  from  me, 

Ashamed  of  coward  odds, 
And  then,  avengeless,  to  him  wend 
And  make  of  him  instead  a  friend  — 
Or  leave  him  to  the  Gods. 


A  WIND-MILL 

A  wind-mill  in  Belgium,  its  sails  all  torn, 

And  long  since  stilled 

Of  their  ancient  toil, 
Keeps  coming  to  my  heart,  through  scenes  war-worn : 

And  I  wonder  if  it  stands 

In  the  green  low  lands 

Where  the  cows  come  home 
At  evening? 

I  wonder  if  the  peasant,  who  reaped  the  green  grain, 

Shadowed  in  the  cool 

Of  the  old  gray  canal, 
Is  gone  with  the  Reaper,  whose  name  is  Pain, 

To  the  fields  of  sleep 

No  sentinels  keep  — 
79 


80  A  WIND -MILL 

Since  the  enemy  too 
Lies  loth  there? 

I  wonder  if  carillons,  with  centuried  chime, 

Swing  out  on  the  winds 

From  the  distant  town, 
And  if  they  are  sad  —  as  they  tell  the  time 

To  the  stranger  hosts 

Who  slay  the  sweet  ghosts 

Of  the  land's  old  peace: 
I  wonder? 

Yet  little  use  it  is!     For  the  world  is  changed, 

And  if  the  mill  stands 

Or  the  bells  still  ring, 
They  voice  across  the  fields  a  desire  estranged: 

And  the  peasant  who  hears 

In  the  after  years 

Will  never  hear  the  song 
They  once  sang! 


TO  MY  SISTER  C.  R.  S. 

(Who  died  December  7th,  1915) 

Through  the  night  darkness,  thick  as  throbbing  pain, 

Little  sister,  I  come  to  you  again, 

Along  the  same  aggrieving  iron  track 

Borne  strickenly,  under  the  gray  stars,  back, 

To  that  long-watched  and  long  foreboding  bed  — 

Where  now  you  lie,  dead  — 

With  all  your  dark  hair  hushed  about  your  head. 


Two  nights  ago  it  was  I  left  your  side, 
Where  suffering  had  swept  your  veins  so  long. 
Your  hands  were  tossing  and  your  eyes  wide.  .  .  . 
Harder  than  death  that  hurt  is  to  forgive. 
There,  as  I  leant,  you  asked  me,  "  Shall  I  live?  " 
81 


82  TO  MY  SISTER  C.  R.  S. 

And  oh,  I  lied,  lied! 

Hoping  to  save  you  some  last  torture's  wrong. 

I  lied  and  made  you  laugh  with  gentle  jests, 
Though  oft  your  hands  were  wandering  to  your  lips 
Where  the  words  broke,  because  the  blind  blood 

wrung 

The  brain,  and  left  the  unavailing  tongue, 
So  sure  at  love's  behests, 
With  each  sweet-uttered  syllable  unstrung. 
Starkly  the  grief  of  it  now  at  me  grips. 

I  left  you  —  though  with  scarce  a  trembling  hope 

To  fight  the  pity  of  the  pale  distress 

That  I  beheld  ravage  your  loveliness: 

And  now  that  pity  never  can  depart! 

But  my  premonished  heart 

Henceforth  will  cast  a  fateful  horoscope 

Over  each  starry  faith  at  which  I  grope. 

I  left:  then  came  the  sudden  sworded  word. 
Scarce  was  I  wakened  ere  it  ran  me  through. 


TO  MY  SISTER  C.  R.  S.  83 

Who  voiced  it  to  the  vibrant  night-wire  —  who? 
Sending  electric  anguish  to  arrest 
My  fluttering  prescient  heart,  that  like  a  bird 
Fell  strangled  in  my  breast  ?  — 
"  Died  suddenly,"  I  heard.  .  .  .  God  seemed  dead 
too. 

Oh  little  sister—"  little  "  still  to  me, 

Though  womanhood  with  all  its  ways  was  yours; 

Though  death  in  all  his  icy  majesty 

Has  set  you  far  beyond  me,  and  immures 

Your  lips  that  gave  to  mine  so  lovingly 

A  last  forgetless  kiss  — 

Is  there  requital  anywhere  for  this? 

Forgive  the  moan.     We  live  and  love  and  die, 
A  moment  tread  earth,  then  the  starry  sky 
Is  pulled  above  us  —  an  eternal  pall. 
Yet  prooflessly  we  know  that  is  not  all! 
So  when  I  bend  above  your  coffin  there 


84  TO  MY  SISTER  C.  R.  S. 

My  slain  faith  shall  not  fall 

Into  the  dust  with  you,  but  rise  more  fair. 

Wherefore  the  sacredness  of  this  my  grief 

I  give  in  part  to  such  imperfect  song: 

That  I  may  not  life's  cruel  seeming  wrong 

Too  much,  and  rend  God,  out  of  disbelief. 

A  little  truth  we  know,  but  not  enough 

Faith's  mystic  flame  to  snuff. 

For  hope  then,  not  despair,  must  we  be  strong. 


OLD  WANTS 

The  lightning's  tide  in  the  west  surges, 

Foams,  far,  through  the  clouds,  and  dies. 
The  dim  hill-wood  in  its  wake  emerges  — 

Then  in  darkness  lies. 
The  wind  in  the  leaves  and  one  lone  cricket 

Leaven  the  sullen  night  with  sound. 
And  slowly,  slowly  the  East  urges 

The  moon  to  her  pale  round. 

And  I  wish  I  knew,  as  the  stars  know,  I  wish  I 
knew  where  peace  is  found. 

The  valley  lights  with  homely  burning 
Sadden  the  gloom,  and  numb  far  rays 

Of  a  wan  train  are  wanly  turning 
Toward  unreckoned  ways. 
85 


86  OLD  WANTS 

The  windy  fire-fly  constellations 

Beaten  to  earth  lie  wet  and  still. 
And  a  sudden  meteor,  heaven-spurning, 

Seems  its  life  to  spill. 

And  I  wish  I  knew,  as  the  dead  know,  I  wish  I 
knew  God's  utter  will. 


TRANSMUTATIONS 

A  clock  struck  in  the  night. 

I  followed  its  soft  vibrations  through  the  darkness, 

Through  the  earth's  shadow  that  gives  the  earth  rest, 

And  out,  on  the  ether  of  interstellar  mystery,  to  a 
star, 

So  wistful,  and  so  human,  in  its  effulgence, 

That  the  light  of  it  seemed  music, 

Sinking  mutely  harmonic  into  the  soul, 

With  vibrance  incommunicably  sweet! 

And  I  wondered  what  strange  waft  of  things,  hid 
den  and  unassayed, 

Dear  things  I  know  not  even  how  to  dream  of, 

Was  drifting  to  me  from  its  planet-deeps.  .  .  . 

But  not  for  long  wondered,  for  there  was  answer  — 
A  sudden  swift  flooding  of  revelations: 

87 


88  TRANSMUTATIONS 

The  reason  of  all  beauty  coming  to  me, 

And  of  that  strangeness  which  is  beauty's  soul. 

And  the  answer  was  —  in  words  softly  illuming : 

Starlight  is  not  indeed  starlight  alone, 

Its  every  beam  is  resonant  of  the  reaching  out  of 

beings, 
Whose    thought    or    deed    transmuted    in    its    ray 

trembles  to  you: 

And  the  moon  —  though  but  an  ash  —  has  memories. 
Out  of  the  flowers  around  you  in  the  darkness 
Comes  scent — but  more:  immortal  fragrances, 
Blown  somehow  from  afar  across  infinitudes, 
To  tell  you  through  the  voiceless  lips  of  blossoms, 
That  sweet  souls  flower  in  worlds  beyond  your  world. 
Out  of  the  river's  flowing  sibilance, 
Its  watery  wistfulness, 

Cool  floats  to  you  —  but  in  it  there  is  more : 
A  distillation  of  distant  passions  ended, 
Passions  of  thither  space  —  that  were  akin  to  those 

of  yours. 
'And  the  dim  beat  of  Time  — 


TRANSMUTATIONS  89 

Which  is  but  numberless  wings  flitting  backward, 
Invisibly  backward  through  you,  bearing  word  of 

you  to  God  — 

Leaves  in  its  wake  the  breath  of  the  Universe  — 
Which  ever  astream  they  cross  — 
The  warm  immanent  touch  of  The  Eternal. 

This  I  heard  —  as  a  clock  struck  in  the  night. 


POETIC  EPIGRAMS 

(After  the  fashion  of  the  Japanese) 

1 

HOPE 

Up  from  the  lake  the  crane 
Lifts  lonely  wings  — 
Like  hope  reborn  again. 


THE  YOUNG  MOON 
The  young  moon  is  so  shy 
She  slips  away 
Ere  stars  half  fill  the  sky. 
90 


POETIC  EPIGRAMS  91 

3 

THE  FAITHLESS 
A  church-bell  in  the  dawn : 
But,  like  the  dead, 
I  too  —  alas !  —  sleep  on. 

4 

GHOSTLINESS 
Whose  touch,  ancestral,  far, 
Flits  through  me  now, 
Like  light  from  a  dead  star? 

5 

AUTUMN  SADNESS 
From  griefs  no  hope  could  numb  — 
All  the  world's  grief  — 
Does  Autumn  sadness  come. 

6 

PILGRIMS 

My  soul  wears  like  the  snail 
Its  body-house: 
And  fares  with  pace  as  frail. 


92  POETIC  EPIGRAMS 

7 

HOLY  ORDERS 
Clear  rosaries  of  dew 
Night  strings  upon 
Each  priestly  praying  yew. 

8 

LOVE  LETTERS  RETURNED  IN  SPRING 
How  many  petals  fall! 
Yet  in  my  heart 
They  once  were  growing,  all ! 

9 

AGE  AND  DEATH 
My  fire  has  burnt  so  low 
That  he  who  knocks 
Is  not  a  guest,  I  trow  1 

10 

THE  DEAD  THINKER 
In  the  slow  silent  hearse 
He  takes  his  way 
Home  to  the  Universe. 


SPRING  HAD  LOST  HER  WAY 

On  the  hills  a  want  hung,  Spring  had  lost  her  way, 

All  the  buds  were  saying  it,  day  after  day. 

All  the  buds  were  saying  it,  sheathed  to  the  mouth, 

That  April,  April, 

Fickle  heedless  April, 

Wayward  wanton  April 

Was  lost  in  the  South! 


All  the  buds  were  saying  it,  "  Spring  has  lost  her 

way, 

And  leaves  us  to  the  North  Wind,  day  after  day! 
Leaves  us  to  the  North  Wind :  naught  can  we  do  — 
Till  April,  April, 
Cruel  careless  April, 
93 


94  SPRING  HAD  LOST  HER  WAY 

Fickle  heedless  April 
Shall  find  her  way  through!  " 


Hourly  did  they  say  it.     But  now  through  the  leaves 
Violets  are  purpling  up,  as  earth's  heart  heaves. 
Violets  are  purpling  up,  by  the  happy  rills  — 

For  April,  April, 

Fairy-footed  April, 

Leafy  laughing  April 

Has  come,  along  the  hills! 


THE  SALE 

(In  Samurai  days,  Kyoto) 

Please  to  come  in.     That  is  my  daughter, 
With  blue  sleeve's  embroidered  mon. 
"  Pretty  "  ?  .  .  .  We  of  the  guest  breathe  praises 
In  Japan  —  not  of  our  own. 

So  should  I  speak  of  the  lotos-blossom, 
Or  of  the  cherry,  she  would  blush. 
It  is  immodest  to  praise  beauty 
In  our  children:  so  I  hush. 

Yet  I  will  sell  her  —  you  are  thinking  ?  — 
To  a  stranger?  for  a  year? 
Please  to  have  tea.     In  this  my  country 
Many  things  like  that  are  ...  queer? 
95 


96  THE  SALE 

It  is  perhaps  so.     Please  to  drink  still 
My  unworthy  tea. —  The  price  ? 
Will  you  not  have  her  dance  and  play  first? 
Koto  music  you  find  nice? 

After  you  buy  her?  —  Then,  three  hundred, 
For  one  year  —  three  hundred  yen. 
Here  is  the  ink,  to  sign  agreement: 
You  shall  read  it  once  again. 

No?  — Then  I  sign  it:  and  the  money 
You  will  give  now  to  my  hand. 
She  is  my  daughter:  as  the  willow 
May  be  swayed,  at  your  command. 

And  with  the  money  I  buy  pleasure? 
On  your  tongue  that  is  the  word? 
In  Japan  .  .  .  revenge  is  sweeter: 
We  spend  first  upon  the  sword. 


THE  SALE  97 

That  I  will  buy:  and  then,  to-morrow, 
Secret  entrance  to  my  foe: 
And  in  his  entrails.  ...  It  is  different 
In  your  country. —  Do  you  go? 


THE  IDEALIST  EXPLAINS 

Half  way  up  the  mountain,  let  me  turn  and  look 

again, 

Yonder  is  the  village,  in  the  valley's  peace, 
With  its  simple  spire  of  faith  —  now  almost  mis 
took  again 
For  a  place  to  bide  in,  through  a  life  of  ease. 

Why  have  I  gone  climbing,  over  pass  and  precipice, 
Up  into  the  cloud-chill,  over  snows  defied? 

Must  I  reach  the  utter  height?     Is  my  striving  less 

a  piece 
Of  immortal  passion,  than  of  mortal  pride? 

That  I  can  not  fathom:  I  have  only  dared  to  scale 

Brink  and  barren  glacier,  toward  the  very  stars; 

98 


THE  IDEALIST  EXPLAINS  99 

And  it  shall  not  matter  much,  whether  I  have  fared 

to  fail, 

Whether  vision,   from  so  high,  its  own  beauty 
mars. 

For  I  shall  have  reached  it  —  reached  the  proudest 

verge  of  all, 

And  if  there  I  perish,  bringing  nothing  back, 
Say  of  me  at  least  that  I  obeyed  the  noblest  urge 

of  all: 
Climbed  and  did  not  cower,  sought  and  did  not 

slack. 


IN  A  GORGE  OF  THE  SIERRAS 

No  myths  have  ever  kept  this  place; 
Too  wild  it  is  even  for  Pan; 
And  for  a  nymph's  or  oread's  grace 
It  was  not  wooded  —  nor  for  man. 


The  fiercest  of  the  maenad  rout 
Would  here  be  hushed  by  the  strong  spell 
Of  primal  solitude;  their  shout 
To  silentness  it  soon  would  quell. 


For  towered  ages  shall  be  born, 
Decay  and  fall  and  be  forgot, 
Ere  feral  terror  shall  be  torn 
By  any  power  from  this  spot. 
100 


IN  A  GORGE  OF  THE  "SIERRAS  101 

Earthquake  and  avalanche  alone 
Could  tame  it:  but  the  Immanent 
Forbids  —  and  keeps  it  for  a  zone 
Of  refuge  when  His  Soul  is  spent. 


THE  SALVATION  ARMY 

(An  impression) 

The  whirr  and  hum  of  the  city  scene, 
The  sudden  drum  and  the  tambourine, 
The  shrill  hymn,  to  clapping  of  hands, 
And  faces  grim  with  the  dark  demands 
That  Hell's  despair  be  shunned. 

The  solemn  crowd  —  curious,  wild; 
The  bloated  rowd,  and  the  vendor's  child; 
The  lone  boy  from  his  homeland  hill 
And  the  shop-girl,  toy  of  Desire's  will  — 
All  gazing,  silent,  on. 

The  loud-pitched  prayer,  the  frenzied  appeal 
To  hearts  that  stare  at  the  pleader's  zeal. 
102 


THE  SALVATION  ARMY  103 

And  then  —  then  —  God  help  His  world !  — 
Onward  into  the  night  they  're  whirled.  .  .  . 
Unto  what  separate  end  ? 


THE  GRAPES  OF  GOD 

The  vines  of  God  grow  over  the  world, 
The  grapes  of  God  are  slowly  ripened, 
Pity  and  Hope  and  Truth  they  are, 
And  Beauty,  His  sole  dream  of  stipend. 
The  vines  of  God  grow  up  through  the  years, 
Into  the  countless  hearts  of  men, 
And  the  wines  of  Beauty,  Hope  and  Truth 
Are  poured  again  and  again. 
For  Truth  must  give  to  the  world  its  way, 
And  Hope  must  give  to  the  world  its  strength, 
And  Beauty  must  be  the  world's  delight, 
And  Pity  must  prove,  at  length, 
That  aware  of  our  misery  and  need, 
God  means  to  grow,  immortally, 
Over  the  fields  of  the  Universe, 
Soul-fruits  to  set  us  free. 
104 


A  PAINTER  — OF  HIS  DEAD  RIVAL 

Could  I  spit  upon  his  tomb 
And  wash  his  fame  out,  I  would  do  it. 
Could  I  then  his  flesh  exhume 
And  add  more  worms  to  burrow  through  it, 

I  would  do  it. 


Could  I  get  at  every  heart 

That  holds  love  of  him,  I  would  break  it. 

I  would  find  some  murder  dart 

Of  mockery  to  pierce  and  shake  it, 

Then  would  break  it. 


Could  I  then  be  made  to  cry 
Reasons  for  it,  all  I  'd  say  is, 
105 


106          A  PAINTER  —  OF  HIS  DEAD  RIVAL 
"Fools!  he  was  sublime,  and  I 
Was  to  him  as  night  to  day  is  — 

That  my  say  is!  " 


A  WIFE,  UNLOVED 

All  that  a  man  should  be,  you  say, 

To  her,  the  wife  he  chooses, 
My  husband  is:  all  —  with  his  grace 

And  unforgetting  care. 
Yet  could  you  know  the  pangs  of  one 

Who  weds  for  love  —  and  loses! 
And  how,  then,  jealousy  but  finds 

Betrayal  everywhere! 

For,  does  he  touch  another's  hand? 

Unfaithful  to  me  is  he! 
Or  does  he  glance  at  a  fair  face? 

At  once  my  tortures  start! 
And  I  am  anguished  lest  his  thoughts 

With  many  such  are  busy; 
107 


108  A  WIFE,  UNLOVED 

Or  lest,  concealed  from  me,  he  keeps 
A  harem  in  his  heart 

A  harem  where  a  hundred  pass 

And  leave  their  beauty  to  him 
As  dreams  that  glide  with  lovely  limbs 

Behind  his  screened  desire; 
For  so  did  I  pass  once  —  and  so 

All  women  may  pass  through  him 
Whose  glance  or  word  is  exquisite 

With  passion's  subtle  fire. 

Such  is  my  fortune  —  such  the  fate 

You  envy:  for  I  wedded 
Ere  I  had  won  him,  so  have  been 

But  as  a  concubine 
Like  any.     Ah  God,  who  hast  made 

The  heart  and  there  embedded 
The  mysteries  of  love,  I  pray 

That  he  may  yet  be  mine. 


SONGS  TO  A.  H.  R. 


SWALLOWS 

In  a  room  that  we  love, 
Under  a  lamp, 

Whose  soft  glow  falls  around, 
We  sit  each  night  and  you  read  to  me, 
Through  the  silence  soul-profound. 
And   black   on   the   yellow    frieze   of   the   walls 
The  swallows  fly  unchanging; 
Round,  round, —  yet  never  around, 
Ranging,—  yet  never  ranging. 


We  sit  and  you  read,  your  face  aglow, 
While  amid  dreams  that  start 
109 


110  SONGS  TO  A.  H.  R. 

I  watch  the  swallows 

As  each  follows 

The  other,  swift,  apart. 

Till  oft  it  seems  that  your  words  are  birds 

Flying  into  my  heart, 

And  singing  there,  and  bringing  there, 

Love's  more  than  artless  art. 


So  never,  in  lands  however  far, 

Or  seas  that  wash  them  round, 

Shall  I  see  wings  along  the  sky 

But  instantly  the  sound 

Of  your  voice  shall  come, 

And  the  sky,  changing, 

Shall  be  the  room  we  love, 

With  its  lamp-glow  —  and  time-flow  — 

And  happy  swallows  ranging. 


SONGS  TO  A.  H.  R.  Ill 


II 

IN  A  DARK  HOUR 

You  are  not  with  me  —  only  the  moon, 
The  sea  and  the  gulls'  cry,  out  of  tune; 
The  myriad  cry  of  the  gulls  still  strewn 
On  the  sands  where  the  tide  will  enter  soon. 


You  are  not  with  me,  only  the  breath 
Of  the  wind  —  and  then  the  wind's  death. 
A  shrouding  silence  then  that  saith, 
"  Even  as  wind  love  vanisheth." 


You  are  not  with  me  —  only  fear, 
As  old  as  earth's  first  frenzied  bier 
That  severed  two  whose  hearts  were  near, 
And  left  one  with  all  Life  unclear. 


H2  SONGS  TO  A.  H.  R. 


Ill 

TWILIGHT  CONTENT 
Is  it  the  wind  in  trees  or  waters  falling? 
Is  it  the  canyon-shadows  rushing  down 
The  ridgy  slopes  that  seem  so  to  be  calling 
My  heart  in  twilit  tenderness  to  drown? 


Is  it  the  canyon-wren's  diminuendo 
That  slips  down  a  soft  scale  of  minor  peace? 
Is  it  the  spell  of  night's  lone  wide  crescendo 
Of  mountain  rest  upon  me  — is  it  these? 


Or  but  some  sense  of  you  I  cannot  measure? 
Some  memory  of  a  wind  of  love  that  blew 
Out  of  your  heart  to  mine  ?     Some  darkling  pleasure 
In  the  first  shades  of  grief  I  shared  with  you? 


SONGS  TO.  A.  H.  R.  113 

I  cannot  tell.     I  only  know  how  surely 
In  you  —  and  the  world's  beauty  —  I  rejoice. 
The  wren  is  still:  gone  to  her  rest  demurely. 
The  night  has  come  —  yet  silence  is  your  voice. 


IV 

TOGETHER 
Around  us  is  the  sea's  dance, 

And  the  glad,  swinging  flight 
Of  wild  windy  gulls  whose  joy 
Is  never  to  alight! 


Above  us  is  the  June  sun, 
And  higher  still  the  Blue  — 

And  God,  like  a  dream,  dear, 
The  whole  world  through! 


THE  SONG  OF  MUEZZIN  ABOU 

I  wake  at  dawn  and  fling  sleep  from  my  eyes. 
The  shade  of  Allah  still  is  on  His  skies. 
Ere  He  shall  lift  it  and  let  forth  the  sun 
My  feet  up  the  steep  minaret  have  run. 
AUaku  akbar!  'llah  il  Allah!    Allah! 


And  there,  leaning  expectant  toward  the  East, 
I  watch  the  first  rays  like  a  holy  yeast 
Shoot  through  the  heavy  sleeping  loaf  of  earth 
And  quicken  it  again  to  a  new  birth. 


And  me  they  quicken  to  an  ecstasy, 
Till  heaven  like  a  mighty  Mosque  I  see, 
And  Allah  in  it,  the  most  high  Imam, 
114 


THE  SONG  OF  MUEZZIN  ABOU  115 

Whose  word  has  made  me  all  I  was  and  am. 
Attahu  akbar!    Allah!  'llah  il  Allah! 

And  so  at  noon,  and  so  again  at  night 
I  mount  with  all  the  soul  of  me  alight, 
And  His  Perfection  to  the  four  winds  cry  — 
And  so  would  do,  so  only,  till  I  die! 

And  after  death!  for  there,  in  Paradise, 
Let  others  have  pale  houris  as  the  price 
Of  their  devotion  to  the  Prophet's  fame: 
A  minaret  for  me  —  and  Allah's  Name ! 
Attahu  akbar!  'llah  il  Allah!     Allah! 


TIDALS 

Low  along  the  sea,  low  along  the  sea, 
The  gray  gulls  are  flying,  and  one  sail  swings; 
The  tide  is  foaming  in;  the  soft  wind  sighing; 
The  brown  kelp  is   stretching,  to  the  surf,  harp- 
strings. 


Low  along  the  sea,  low  along  the  sea, 
The  gray  gulls  are  flying,  and  one  sail  fades; 
The  tide  is  foaming  out;  the  soft  wind  dying; 
And  white  stars  are  peeping  from  the  night's  pale 
shades. 


116 


A  CHILD  AGAIN 

(In  the  country) 

When  winds  grieve  in  the  willow 
And  fireflies  flit  about, 
When  the  owl  forsakes  her  pillow 
In  the  dead  tree  and  wings  out, 
To  hoot,  hoot,  and  halloo, 
At  the  watch-dog  in  his  kennel, 
When  the  beetle  beats  at  the  window, 
And  frogs  croak  in  the  fennel, — 
I  become  a  child  once  more, 
Forgetting  the  years  between, 
And  ancient  cares  drop  from  me, 
Gray  ghosts  of  griefs  I  have  seen. 
And  instead  comes  mystery  to  me, 
As  in  the  long-agoes: 
117 


118  A  CHILD  AGAIN 

And  I  only  lie  and  listen  — 
And  know  what  a  child  knows. 


Know  what  a  child  foresenses 

Of  life  and  death  and  God, 

When  his  young  heart  commences 

To  gaze,  first,  from  the  sod 

At  moon  and  star  and  planet 

In  the  dark  deeps  above  him, 

In  the  night  that  seems  too  silent 

And  aloof  from  him  to  love  him. 

That  seems  so  vast  and  vaulted 

And  eternal  to  his  soul, 

That  a  trembling  prayer  slips  from  him 

A  first  immortal  toll 

The  Infinite  takes  from  him 

To  ease  his  unborn  pain. 

When  winds  grieve  in  the  willow 

I  am  that  child  again. 


SANTA  BARBARA 

Santa  Barbara  by  the  sea, 

You  can  give  me  bliss  of  senses, 
Balm  of  heart  and  euphrasy, 

Peace  of  mind  in  all  its  tenses. 
You  can  give  me  palm  and  pine, 

Side  by  side  in  sweet  consentment, 
Air  can  pour  to  me,  like  wine, 

From  your  sky-cup  of  contentment. 
You  can  give  me  every  flower 

Eye  has  thrilled  to;  every  scent 
Magic  sun  and  soil  and  dew 

For  delight  have  meant. 
You  can  give  me  these,  and  more, 

In  one  swift  enchanted  whole, 


119 


120  SANTA  BARBARA 

But  you  cannot  give  to  me 
What  I  need  —  my  soul. 

For  your  mountains  blue  and  dim 

Do  not  know  the  touch  of  sorrow. 
From  your  sea-horizon's  rim 

Fear  of  storm  I  can  not  borrow. 
And  when  twilight  shadows  fall 

Softly  down  your  sloping  canyons, 
Even  then  I  do  not  call 

Moon  and  star  for  my  companions. 
For  no  loneliness  I  feel, 

And  no  thought  of  death  can  come, 
In  a  land  Spring  never  leaves, 

Where  no  bird  grows  dumb. 
You  can  give  me  life  —  yea,  too, 

Lethe,  that  may  be  life's  goal, 
But  you  cannot  give  to  me 

What  I  seek  —  my  soul. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LONELY  LOVE 

There  are  three  pines  about  the  door, 
No  bird  will  light  in  save  the  crow, 
Or  the  chill-hearted  monkish  owl, 
Whose  eyes  peer  out  beneath  his  cowl. 


Ascetic  through  the  silent  night 

He  keeps  it;  while  the  scornful  crow 

Its  desolation  keeps  by  day  — 

Its  gloom  .  .  .  where  passion  once  held  sway. 


And  blood-guilt  is  the  cause  men  give 
Of  its  forsakenness  and  rack: 
Love  here  once  cut  its  own  white  throat; 
And  Nature  thus  has  taken  note. 
121 


122  THE  HOUSE  OF  LONELY  LOVE 

And  yet  for  no  unfaithfulness 

Or  perfidy  did  the  two  die. 

But  so  dull  were  they,  each  preferred 

Murder  at  last  to  make  a  third. 

For  all  was  solitude  —  with  naught 
To  save  love  from  its  own  sick  self. 
Fearful  was  either  of  a  friend  — 
Lest  ennui  for  but  one  should  end. 

So  the  deed  fell :  and  the  lone  house 
Seems  now  by  one  sole  caution  stirred 
"  Two  cannot  love  who  love  no  third, 
Or  live  on  love's  one  sating  word." 


IN  THE  SHRINE  OF  ALL 

The  shadows  make  their  evening  bed 

To  eastward  of  the  hill, 
And  sleepily  and  silently  lie  down. 
The  vespers  of  the  wind  are  said, 

And  all  the  leaves  are  still: 
High  stars  begin  the  nave  of  night  to  crown. 


The  frogs  take  up  their  vigil  —  like 

Young  acolytes  whose  voice 
Is  yet  untrained  to  holy  harmonies. 
Their  chants  across  the  darkness  strike, 

As  strangely  they  rejoice 
Under  the  stillness  of  precentor  trees. 
123 


124  IN  THE  SHRINE  OF  ALL 

Cathedral  of  the  Immanent 

Seems  the  night-earth:  and  we 
As  High  Priests  of  a  Beauty  naught  can  quell. 
Nor  shall  our  faith  in  it  be  spent 

Till  we  no  more  can  see 
With  soul,  as  well  as  sight,  its  starry  spell. 


A  TIMELESS  REFRAIN 

So  little  there  is  to  remember  — 

And  so  much  to  forget! 
We  come  to  the  earth  and  go  to  the  earth, 

Paying  the  primal  debt. 


And  why  we  have  come  we  know  not, 

Where  go,  none  can  decide. 
For  the  door  of  Birth  and  the  door  of  Death 

Are  dark  on  the  outer  side. 


So  little  there  is  to  remember  — 
And  cling  with  longing  to  — 

That  not  unwilling  are  we,  at  Death, 
To  pass,  with  nothing,  through. 
125 


MIGRATION 

With  frozen  feet  the  wild  geese 
Take  their  way  at  dawn, 
So  cold  has  been  the  night  lake, 
So   shelterless   the   shore. 
They  honk  against  the  sky, 
In  the  dim  gray  withdrawn. 
I  wonder  if  they  know  why 
Their  wings  are  driven  on. 


I  watch  them  as  they  vanish; 
I  watch  them  in  my  heart 
Long  after  —  and  their  plaints, 
That  fall,  thin  and  far, 
Seem  echoes  of  the  sighs 
126 


MIGRATION  127 

Of  souls  bid  to  start 
Across  wan  chill  skies 
For  Death  set  apart. 


A  MAID,  DYING 

Bury  me  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 

The  sun  would  be  too  strong. 
Bury  me  by  the  light  of  the  moon, 

And  let  me  sleep  long. 
For  since  as  the  moon's  my  life  has  been, 

A  semblance  of  the  day, 
By  the  pale  lonely  light  of  the  moon 

I  should  be  laid  away. 


Bury  me  by  the  light  of  the  moon  — 

And  with  no  rose  above, 
But  only  the  lily:  for  my  heart 

Has  never  known  love. 
128 


A  MAID,  DYING  129 

And  a  flower  of  death  the  lily  is, 

Of  death  —  and  chastity : 
So  by  the  lily  light  of  the  moon 

Should  my  last  shrouding  be. 


ON  THE  CAMINO  REALE 

(California) 

Here  are  the  sea  and  the  mountains, 
Floating  clouds  and  gull-pinions; 

Here  the  far  ships  pass 

Upon  their  mystic  way. 

Here  the  winds  hold  mass 
With  all  their  myriad  wave-minions, 

Surging  along  the  shore 

With  loud  intoning  sway. 


Here  are  the  sea  and  the  mountains, 
Shriving  palms  and  sun-gladness; 
Here,  like  acolytes, 
Sweet  incense-flowers  fill 
The  sky's  blue  nave;  and  nights, 
130 


ON  THE  CAMINO  REALE  131 

Like  days,  are  free  of  soul-sadness; 

For  all  earth  is  aware 
Of  Nature's  wide  good-will. 


THE  WIVES  OF  ENGLAND 

Like  running  waters  flow  our  hearts 

In  sorrow  now  away, 
Though  all  the  hills  together 
Are  shining  in  the  dew, 
For  they  who  walked  with  us  last  year 

Now  lie  beneath  the  clay, 
And  April  joy  shall  come  no  more 

To  gladden  us  —  or  May: 
But  grief,  now,  and  gloom,  with  every  weather. 

Like  running  water  flow  our  hearts 

In  hungering  and  pain, 
Though  bonny  lambs  are  bleating 
And  little  birds  are  loud, 
For  none  have  we  to  share  with  us 
132 


THE  WIVES  OF  ENGLAND  133 

The  sun  —  that  shines  in  vain ! 
That  falls  upon  the  heather  as 

A  lone  and  sterile  stain  — 
To  sicken  us  with  heartache  and  defeating. 

Like  running  waters  flow  our  hearts, 

Toward  a  bitter  sea. — 
O  what  is  old  as  sorrow, 
But  joy  that  sorrow  slays; 
But  life  that  cannot  keep  from  death 

Its  own,  with  any  plea, 
Or  save  —  from  the  grave  —  all 

That  gives  it  verity; 
Or  find  true  content  in  hope's  to-morrow! 


THE  TILLING 

The  dull  ox,  Sorrow,  treads  my  heart, 

Dragging  the  harrow,  Pain, 
And  turning  the  old  year's  tillage 

Under  the  soil  again. 
So,  well  do  I  know  the  Tiller 

Will  bring  once  more  the  grain: 
For  grief  comes  never  to  the  strong  — 
Nor  dull  despair's  benumbing  wrong  — 
But  from  them  spring  a  hidden  throng 

Of  seeds,  for  new  life  fain. 

So  heavily  do  I  let  the  hoofs 

Trample  the  deeps  of  me; 
For  only  thus  is  spirit 

Brought  to  fecundity. 
134 


THE  TILLING  135 

But  when  the  ox  is  stabled 

And  the  harrow  set  aside, 
With  calm  I  watch  a  new  world  grow, 
Sweetly  green,  up  out  of  woe, 
And,  glad  of  the  Tiller,  then,  I  know 

He  too  is  satisfied. 


A  LOVER,  TO  DEATH 

You  have  torn  from  me,  Death,  mother  and  father, 

sister  and  brother  and  friend. 
The  earth  opened,  the  earth  closed:  grass  grew  — 

and  that  was  the  end. 
For  still  in  the  voids  you  left  did  sun  and  moon 

their  rays  disperse. 
But  one  there  is  you  could  take  from  me  —  and 

leave  no  Universe. 


136 


METAPHYSICAL  SONNETS 

1 

SPACE 

"  Space  is  not  real,"  say  the  terrified, 
Who  face  the  awful  and  unfathomed  skies 
That  seem  our  finitude  so  to  deride 
With  a  great  overwhelming,  "Space  is  lies! 
Yea,  it  is  lies,  and  so  shall  not  abide: 
For  God  Himself  its  deeps  could  not  endure 
Stretching  beyond  Him,  infinite,  unsure, 
Beyond  Him  and  beyond  on  every  side!  " 

And  yet  they  know  Space  could  not  pass  away 
Space  and  the  constellated  Universe. 
To  think  it  is  no  more  to  be  averse 
To  waiving  any  truth  that  life  may  say; 
137 


138  METAPHYSICAL  SONNETS 

Yea,  is  no  more  to  trust  that  sense,  within, 
Which  tells  us  God  is  and  has  ever  been. 


2 

TIME 

"  Time  is  not  real,"  say  they  who  would  flee 
The  fear  that  Time  immeasurable  streams 
Forever  through  the  Universe  —  a  sea 
Which  flows  from  past  to  future,  "  Time  but  seems! 
Yea,  it  but  seems,  and  cannot  truly  be, 
Else  far  without  the  Mind  of  God  its  tide 
Would  He  behold  sweeping  beyond  Him,  wide  — 
And  that  assertion  with  absurdness  teems." 

Again  folly!     Time  is  the  mate  of  Change, 
Wedded  to  it  wherever  aught  may  be, 
And  who  denies  it  true  reality 
Denies  not  only  all  events  that  range 
Atom  and  Universe  —  but  to  God's  Mind 
Itself,  movement  or  life  of  any  kind. 


METAPHYSICAL  SONNETS  139 

3 
EARTH 

"  Earth  is  not  real,"  say  they  who  revolt 

From  Matter  as  the  mindless  source  of  all, 

"  Earth  —  and  the  stars  that  through  the  vast  void 

bolt, 

But  which,  were  there  no  seeing  eye,  would  fall 
To  non-existence  like  such  dreams  as  moult 
Their  pinions  and  wane  into  nothingness: 
For  Earth  is  but  Mind-stuff,  nor  would  be  less 
Than  Mind  did  Matter  vanish  past  recall." 


Folly  once  more!     For  Mind  is  never  known 
Unknit  to  Matter  —  nor  conceivable; 
The  Universe  God  never  can  annul 
And  change  to  immaterial  Mind  alone. 
Seen  and  Unseen  are  they,  and  so  must  be  — 
Fulfilling  their  primordial  Destiny. 


140  METAPHYSICAL  SONNETS 

4 

MIND 

"  Mind  is  not  real,"  say  the  science-bound, 
"  Not  immanent  in  the  material  whirls 
Of  suns,  dead  and  unborn,  that  ether  round 
Itself  forever  infinitely  unfurls. 
Mind  is  not  real,  but  is  foam  that  Chance 
Has  flung  up,  phantom-like,  out  of  the  Force 
Which  gives  the  Universe  its  aimless  course  — 
Its  weltering  through  vain  seas  of  circumstance.' 


Once  more  untrue.     For  Mind  eternally 

Has  been  wherever  Matter  found  a  place. 

To  but  one  atom  fix  it  in  all  space 

And  you  have  fixed  it  to  infinity. 

For  past  imagination's  pale  it  lies, 

That  skies  are  and  not  God  within  the  skies. 


METAPHYSICAL  SONNETS  141 

5 

ERGO 

Therefore  Existence  ever  is  fourfold, 
Nor  can  be  otherwise  to  man  or  God 
Than  Mind  and  Matter  inseparably  unrolled 
Through  Space  and  Time :  —  for  all  Change  so  is 

shod 

That  no  event  can  tread  in  Space  untimed, 
In  Time  unspaced,  in  Mind  or  Matter  alone; 
And  all  that  ever  was  or  shall  be  known 
Has  chanced  in  these  —  has  through  and  through 

them  trod. 


No  more  then,  in  Philosophy,  of  those 

Who  dream  of  spaceless  immaterial  Mind, 

Or  mindless  Space  and  Matter  —  both  are  blind 

And  to  the  truth  of  life  untrusty  foes. 

For  body  and  soul  are  we,  and  so  shall  be, 

Like  God  and  Universe,  eternally. 


TO  THE  MASTERS  OF  EUROPE 

Heart-deep  in  blood,  and  wading  deeper  still, 
Hear  this,  O  ministers  and  lords  and  kings! 
They  are  not  mad  with  vain  imaginings 
Who  warn  that  you  must  soon  prepare  to  will 
World-peace  in  some  all-sovereign  Parliament  — 
Sceptered  with  every  land's  divine  consent  — 
Or  rip  the  Future's  entrails  with  such  wars 
As  very  Vengeance  utterly  abhors. 

Choose  then:     A  High  Court  of  Humanity, 
Where  all  forego  that  all  may  gain  their  right, 
Or  still  this  Feudal-Hell's  Insanity, 
That  shall  leave  life  no  worth  for  which  to  fight. 
Choose!  for  the  ways  have  led  you  now  to  this: 
Brave  Reason  —  or  blind  Anarchy's  abyss. 
142 


THE  THRESHING  FLOOR 

What  is  life  but  a  threshing-floor, 
The  flails  of  Fate  and  God  pass  o  'er? 
Flails  of  Fate,  crushing  the  grain 
Too  often  with  their  bloody  beat, 
And  the  flails  of  God,  passing  again 
And  yet  again  amid  the  wheat, 
To  sever  it  from  the  chaff  and  cheat? 
What  is  life  but  a  threshing-floor? 
What  is  death  but  life  made  o'er? 


143 


A  LITANY 

I  call  Thee  not  Infinite  Love, 

For  unbeloved  vast  millions  go; 
Nor  Infinite,  Eternal  Truth, 

Since  half  our  faiths  of  falsehood  flow. 
I  call  Thee  not  Omnipotence, 

Who  still  let  degradation  be; 
Nor  yet  Omniscience  —  else  thine  eyes 

Most  vainly  see! 
I  call  Thee  not  Divine  —  if  so 

I  must  bow  down  to  Thee  in  awe; 
Nor  unrelenting  Fate  —  nor  more 

Relentless  Law. 

I  call  Thee  but  the  World's  Great  Life, 
Who  art  myself,  and  fight  with  me 
The  spirit-ward,  immortal  strife 

For  what  should  be. 
144 


EARTH  AND  NEW  EARTH 

By 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

Cale  Young  Rice — like  Alfred  Noyes — may  be  ex 
celled  by  a  contemporary  here  and  there  in  one 
requirement  of  his  art,  but  both  poets  excel  in 
comprehensiveness  of  view  and  both  are  geniuses 
of  the  robust  order — voluminous  producers. 
Given  quality,  sustained  and  wide  ranging  com 
position  is  a  fair  test  of  poetic  power. — The  New 
York  Sun. 

Glancing  thru  the  reviews  quoted  at  the  end  of 
"Earth  and  New  Earth"  we  note  that  we  have 
said  some  very  enthusiastic  things  in  praise  of  the 
poetry  of  Cale  Young  Rice,  and  yet  there  is  not 
an  adjective  we  would  withdraw.  On  the  con 
trary  each  new  volume  only  confirms  the  expecta 
tion  of  the  better  work  this  writer  was  to  pro 
duce. — The  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

This  is  a  volume  of  verse  rich  in  dramatic  quality 
and  beauty  of  conception  .  .  .  Every  poem  is 
quotable  and  the  collection  must  appeal  to  all  who 
can  appreciate  the  highest  forms  of  modern  verse. 
— The  Bookseller  (New  York). 

Any  one  familiar  with  "Cloister  Lays,"  "The 
Mystic,"  etc.,  does  not  need  to  be  told  that  they 
rank  with  the  very  best  poetry.  And  Mr.  Rice's 
dramas  are  not  equaled  by  any  other  American 
author's.  .  .  .  And  when  those  who  are  loyal  to 
poetic  traditions  cherished  through  the  whole  his 
tory  of  our  language  contemplate  the  anemia  and 
artificiality  of  contemporaries,  they  can  but  assert 
that  Mr.  Rice  has  the  grasp  and  sweep,  the 
rhythm,  imagery  and  pulsating  sympathy,  which 
in  wondering  admiration  are  ascribed  to  genius. 
The  Los  Angeles  Times. 


Earth  and  New  Earth 

This  latest  collection  shows  no  diminution  in  Mr. 
Rice's  versatility  or  power  of  expression.  Its 
poems  are  serious,  keen,  distinctively  free  and 
vitally  spiritual  in  thought. — The  Continent  (Chi- 
cago). 

Mr.  Rice  is  concerned  with  thoughts  that  are 
more  than  timely;  they  represent  a  large  vision  of 
the  world  events  now  transpiring  .  .  .  and  his 
affirmation  of  the  spiritual  in  such  an  hour  estab 
lishes  him  in  the  immemorial  office  of  the  poet- 
prophet.  .  .  .  The  volume  is  a  worthy  addition  to 
the  large  amount  of  his  work. — Anna  L.  Hopper 
in  The  Louisville  Courier- Journal. 

Cale  Young  Rice  is  the  greatest  living  American 
poet. — D.  F.  Hannigan,  Lit.  Ed.  The  Rochester 
Post  Express. 

The  indefinable  spirit  of  swift  imaginative  sug 
gestion  is  never  lacking.  The  problems  of  fate 
are  still  big  with  mystery  and  propounded  with 
tense  elemental  dramatism. — The  Philadelphia 
North- A  merican. 

The  work  of  Cale  Young  Rice  emerges  clearly  as 
the  most  distinguished  offering  of  this  country  to 
the  combined  arts  of  poetry  and  the  drama. 
"Earth  and  New  Earth"  strikes  a  ringing  new 
note  of  the  earth  which  shall  be  after  the  War. — 
The  Memphis  Commercial-Appeal. 

12  mo,  158  pages,  $1.25  net 
At  all  bookstores. 


Published  by 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

353  Fourth  Avenue  New  York  City 


The  Collected 
Plays  and  Poems 

OF 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 


The  great  quality  of  Cale  Young  Rice's 
work  is  that,  amid  all  the  distractions  and 
changes  of  contemporary  taste,  it  remains 
true  to  the  central  drift  of  great  poetry.  His 
interests  are  very  wide  .  .  .  and  his  books 
open  up  a  most  varied  world  of  emotion  and 
romance. — Gilbert  Murray. 

These  volumes  are  an  anthology  wrought 
by  a  master  hand  and  endowed  with  perennial 
vitality.  .  .  .  This  writer  is  the  most 
distinguished  master  of  lyric  utterance  in  the 
new  world  .  .  .  and  he  has  contributed 
much  to  the  scanty  stock  of  American  literary 
fame.  Fashions  in  poetry  come  and  go,  and 
minor  lights  twinkle  fitfully  as  they  pass  in 
tumultuous  review.  But  these  volumes  are 
of  the  things  that  are  eternal  in  poetic  expres 
sion.  .  .  .  They  embody  the  hopes  and 
impulses  of  universal  humanity. — The  Phila 
delphia  North- American. 

Mr.  Rice  has  been  hailed  by  too  many 
critics  as  the  poet  of  his  country,  if  not  of  his 


generation,  not  to  create  a  demand  for  a  full 
edition  of  his  works. — The  Hartford  (Conn.) 
Courant. 

This  gathering  of  his  forces  stamps  Mr.  Rice 
as  one  of  the  world's  true  poets,  remarkable 
alike  for  strength,  versatility  and  beauty  of 
expression. — The  Chicago  Herald  (Ethel  M. 
Cotton). 

Any  one  familiar  with  "Cloister  Lays," 
"The  Mystic,"  etc.,  does  not  need  to  be  told 
that  they  rank  with  the  very  best  poetry. 
And  Mr.  Rice's  dramas  are  not  equaled  by 
any  other  American  author's.  .  .  .  The 
admirable  characteristic  of  his  work  is  the 
understanding  of  life.  .  .  .  And  when 
those  who  are  loyal  to  poetic  traditions  cher 
ished  through  the  whole  history  of  our  language 
contemplate  the  anemia  and  artificiality  of 
contemporaries,  they  can  but  assert  that  Mr. 
Rice  has  the  grasp  and  sweep,  the  rhythm, 
imagery  and  pulsating  sympathy,  which  in 
wondering  admiration  are  ascribed  to  genius. 
— The  Los  Angeles  Times. 

Mr.  Rice's  poetic  dramas  have  won  him 
highest  praise.  But  the  universality  of  his 
genius  is  nowhere  more  apparent  than  in  his 
lyrics.  Their  charm  is  derived  both  from  the 
strength  and  beauty  of  their  .thought  and 
from  the  multitudinous  felicities  of  their 
utterance.  For  sheer  grace  and  loveliness 


some  of  these  lyrics  are  unsurpassed  in  modern 
poetry.— The  N.  E.  Homestead  (Springfield, 
Mass.}. 

It  is  with  no  undue  repetition  that  we 
speak  of  the  very  great  range  and  very  great 
variety  of  Mr.  Rice's  subject,  inspiration,  and 
mode  of  expression.  .  .  .  The  passage  of 
his  spirit  is  truly  from  deep  to  deep. — Mar 
garet  So  Anderson  (The  Louisville  Evening 
Post). 

In  Mr.  Rice  we  have  a  voice  such  as  America 
has  rarely  known  before. — The  Rochester  (N. 
F.)  Post  Express. 

It  is  good  to  find  such  sincere  and  beautiful 
work  as  is  in  these  two  volumes.  .  .  .  Here 
is  a  writer  with  no  wish  to  purchase  fame  at 
the  price  of  eccentricity  of  either  form  or 
subject.  He  lives  up  to  his  theory  that  the 
path  of  American  literature  lies  not  in  dis 
tinctly  local  lines,  but  will  become  more  and 
more  cosmopolitan  since  America  is  built  of 
all  civilizations. — The  Independent. 

Mr.  Rice's  style  is  that  of  the   masters. 

.  .  .  Yet  it  is  one  that  is  distinctively 
American.  ...  He  will  live  with  our 
great  poets. — Louisville  Herald  (J.  J.  Cole). 

Mr.  Rice  is  an  American  by  birth,  but  he 
is  not  merely  an  American  poet.  Over  exist- 


ence  and  the  whole  world  his  vision  extends. 
He  is  a  poet  of  human  life  and  his  range  is 
uncircumscribed. — The  Baltimore  Evening 
News. 

Viewing  Mr.  Rice's  plays  as  a  whole,  I 
should  say  that  his  prime  virtue  is  fecundity 
or  affluence,  the  power  to  conceive  and  com 
bine  events  resourcefully,  and  an  abundance 
of  pointed  phrases  which  recalls  and  half  re 
stores  the  great  Elisabethans.  His  aptitude  for 
structure  is  great.— The  Nation  (0.  W.  Fir 
kins). 

Mr.  Rice  has  fairly  won  his  'singing  robes 
and  has  a  right  to  be  ranked  with  the  first 
of  living  poets.  One  must  read  the  volumes 
to  get  an  idea  of  their  Cosmopolitan  breadth 
and  fresh  abiding  charm.  .  .  .  The  dra 
mas,  taken  as  a  whole,  represent  the  most 
important  work  of  the  kind  that  has  been 
done  by  any  living  writer;  .  .  This  work 
belongs  to  that  great  world  where  the  mightiest 
spiritual  and  intellectual  forces  are  forever 
contending;  to  that  deeper  life  which  calls 
for  the  rarest  gifts  of  poetic  expression. — The 
Book  News  Monthly  (Albert  S.  Henry), 


2  Vol.  $3.00  net 
The  Century  Co. 


HPHE  following  volumes  are  now 
included  in  the  author's  "Collected 
Plays  and  Poems/'  and  are  not  ob 
tainable  elsewhere : 

At  the  World's  Heart 

Cale  Young  Rice  is  highly  esteemed  by  readers 
wherever  English  is  the  native  speech. — The  Man 
chester  (England}  Guardian. 

Porzia:  A  Play 

It  matters  little  that  we  hesitate  between  ranking 
Mr.  Rice  highest  as  dramatist  or  lyrist ;  what  mat 
ters  is  that  he  has  the  faculty  divine  beyond  any 
living  poet  of  America;  his  inspiration  is  true, 
and  his  poetry  is  the  real  thing. — The  London 
Bookman. 

Far  Quests 

It  shows  a  wide  range  of  thought,  and  sympathy, 
and  real  skill  in  workmanship,  while  occasionally 
it  rises  to  heights  of  simplicity  and  truth,  that 
suggest  such  inspiration  as  should  mean  lasting 
fame. — The  Daily  Telegraph  (London}. 

The  Immortal  Lure;    Four  Plays 

It  is  great  art — with  great  vitality. — James  Lane 
Allen. 

Different  from  Paola  and  Francesca,  but  excelling 
it — or  any  of  Stephen  Phillips's  work — in  a  vivid 
presentment  of  a  supreme  moment  in  the  lives  of 
the  characters. — The  New  York  Times. 


Many  Go  da 

These  poems  are  flashingly,  glowingly  full  of  the 
East  .  .  .  What  I  am  sure  of  in  Mr.  Rice  is  that 
here  we  have  an  American  poet  whom  we  may 
claim  as  ours. — William  Dean  Howells,  in  The 
North  American  Review. 

Nirvana  Days 

Mr.  Rice  has  the  technical  cunning  that  makes  up 
almost  the  entire  equipment  of  many  poets  now 
adays,  but  human  nature  is  more  to  him  always 
.  .  .  and  he  has  the  feeling  and  imaginative  sym 
pathy  without  which  all  poetry  is  but  an  empty 
and  vain  thing. — The  London  Bookman. 

A  Night  in  Avignon:    A  Play 

It  is  as  vivid  as  a  page  from  Browning,  Mr.  Rice 
has  the  dramatic  pulse. — James  Huneker. 

Yolanda  of  Cyprus;  A  Play 

It  has  real  life  and  drama,  not  merely  beautiful 
words,  and  so  differs  from  the  great  mass  of 
poetic  plays. — Prof.  Gilbert  Murray. 

David;  A  Play 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  were  Mr.  Rice  an  English 
man  or  a  Frenchman,  his  reputation  as  his  coun 
try's  most  distinguished  poetic  dramatist  would 
have  been  assured  by  a  more  universal  sign  of 
recognition. — The  Baltimore  News. 
Charles  Pi  Tocca:  A  Play 
It  is  the  most  powerful,  vital,  and  truly  tragical 
drama  written  by  an  American  for  some  years. 
There  is  genuine  pathos,  mighty  yet  never  repel- 
lant  passion,  great  sincerity  and  penetration,  and 
great  elevation  and  beauty  of  language. — The 
Chicago  Post. 

Song-Surf 

Mr.  Rice's  work  betrays  wide  sympathies  with 
nature  and  life,  and  a  welcome  originality  of  sen 
timent  and  metrical  harmony.— Sydney  Lee. 


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